


euphoria

by MaidenMotherCrone



Series: HEX [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - SKAM Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Attempted Sexual Assault, Choking, Coming of Age, Dark but STILL gonna have FUNNN, Developing Relationship, Disordered Eating, Drug Addiction, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Choking lol, No Rape but still fucked up, POV Harry Potter, Rimming, Substance Abuse, Timeline What Timeline, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-01-16 12:23:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 89
Words: 139,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaidenMotherCrone/pseuds/MaidenMotherCrone
Summary: Harry Potter is an addict. Harry Potter is a recovering addict. Harry Potter is a recovered addict.Tom Riddle wants a fight. Tom Riddle wants Harry Potter. Tom Riddle wants the fucking world.This will not end well.(a story about greed and reaching euphoria.)





	1. MONDAY, 7:30AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it all begins.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Oh  
I'm taking it all for us  
I'm taking it all  
Taking it all for us  
Oh  
I'm doing it all for love  
I'm doing it all  
I'm doing it all for love"
> 
> -All For Us, Labrinth

There is a ritual to how Harry Potter readies himself in the morning.

First, he gets up.

He stands to his feet and stretches. He looks around the room, peering at his sleeping roommates. First, at Seamus, the farthest from his bed. Then, to Dean, who is in the bed next to Seamus. Neville, snoring away into his pillows.

Finally, Ron. Ron is the ugliest of sleepers.

Harry saves Ron for last because it always makes him want to laugh. Ron is starfished out over his sheets, snoring rather loudly with his mouth hanging open unattractively. It’s a laugh, for sure. And after he laughs, Harry goes to the bathroom and continues the ritual.

He strips out of his clothing and ignores the snide remarks from the magical mirror—because he remembers the days where they took the magical mirror out, the days when he was a breeze and his bones—before he steps into the heat of the shower. Slowly, all of that sleep tension melts away as he runs soap up and down his arms. He lets the water pour over his head, flattening his hair over his blurry vision. He soaks in the heat and lets it seep through his pores. Even now, after all of these years, hot showers sometimes feel like a luxury—this is one of those mornings when they do.

Because it feels like a luxury, he melts in the heat a little longer than he usually would. When he finally steps out, wrapping himself in a fluffy crimson towel, he feels more refreshed and relaxed than he has in ages. There are no phantom aches, his stomach doesn’t feel too full when it’s so empty, and his skin doesn’t feel too tight for his bones. He feels healthy because he _ is_; he’s _better _now.

He grabs another towel to scrub the wetness from his curls and walks quietly back into the bedroom. Neville is up, but he’s moving quietly. He offers a smile, but doesn’t say anything to Harry—Neville and Harry aren’t close, but Neville knows his habits.

This is an early morning.

That means Harry means to go it alone today.

So, Harry dresses in clothing that fits, which to this day, still feels rather odd. He knows that the trousers _ aren’t _too tight; they’re simply tailored. But Lavender has joked that they make his bum look good, and he’s not sure what to make of that, honestly.

He buttons up his shirt, and then, pays homage to Sirius by leaving his shirt untucked because, according to Sirius, shirt-tucking is for scrubs. Harry doesn’t really know what that means but Sirius says a lot of wild things and he thinks that the scrunched up expression that Remus will surely make is a little _ (a lot) _funny.

Finally, Harry loops around his tie. He remembers his first year, when he didn’t know how to tie a tie. He glances over at Ron, still ugly-sleeping and smirks.

Ron _ had _known, and had gladly taught Harry.

Harry’s smile softens; it’s hard to make fun of someone so earnest.

He slides into his shoes and waves goodbye to Neville before he scoops up his robe over one arm and his satchel over the other before he’s bounding down the steps. Harry ignores the third-year student that’s always up at this time too, always studying. Sometimes Harry thinks the kid should’ve been Sorted as a Ravenclaw, because he is _ always _studying. Harry goes up to the portrait hole and pushes it open.

He stops.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry asks.

He pulls his bag up his shoulder and swallows, staring at the other boy on the stairs.

Harry hates how fucking handsome the other boy is; tall and dark and handsome with a patrician nose. He thinks he’s too good to be wearing the Hogwarts uniform, electing an all-black Muggle suit with only his fucking tie to break up the solid wall of darkness. Harry sneers.

Tom Riddle smirks up at him, like there’s nothing wrong with the picture.

Harry can think of about twelve.

“I’m here to walk you,” Riddle says.

Harry scoffs, leaning back against the portrait hole. He ignores the Fat Lady’s squawks of disapproval, keeping his eyes trained on Riddle and his smug fucking face.

“To where?” Harry asks.

“To breakfast,” Riddle says. He takes another step up, like he’s going to actually _ walk up to Harry_, and Harry can’t have that.

Harry walks carefully across the landing to the opposite staircase, and Riddle turns, keeping him in his burgundy line of sight, but he doesn’t make a move to follow Harry. Harry had thought that Riddle would’ve given up by now, but he seems to be fucking serious with his nonsense.

“No thanks,” Harry retorts with a sickly sweetness and he throws open his bag, digging through it as the staircases start to shift, thank _ Merlin_.

Riddle stares with an absent sort of curiosity that turns into burning amusement as Harry finally pulls his hand out of his bag.

And promptly flips Riddle the bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> We begin "euphoria", a much darker entry in the HEX series.
> 
> In this series, Harry is much more affected by the things that he suffered through as a kid. The abuse, the disordered eating, and the displacement that comes with adoption are all at the forefront, and he dealt with it in a way that really fucked him up, for a bit.
> 
> For myself, this is an opportunity in exploring my mental health, so there will be really dark moments. I will tell you now, there is an attempted sexual assault that consists of non-consensual touching (not between Harry and Tom), and it is a dark moment.
> 
> But, ultimately, I'm going for a happy ending, and I think you'll all be quite pleased.
> 
> This fic will deal with darker themes, so really mind the tags, and take care of yourselves.
> 
> Welcome to "euphoria".


	2. MONDAY, 6:53PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we get a little more inside Harry's head and circumstances.

Harry picks at his dinner that night. He doesn’t mean to, but he does. Breakfast had been consumed, lunch was light, but dinner isn’t something that seems to be happening for him. He can’t help it; sometimes, he gets in his own head, and there’s a lump in his stomach that sits as heavy as a meal. He gorges on his own anxiety instead and pretends that Ron and Hermione aren’t watching him closely.

They’re surrounded now by Lavender and Ginny and Luna, so they won’t say anything; not to his face or right now. But, he knows that sometime soon, he’ll turn the corner to find them pressed together, heads bent, his name passed back and forth between them. They’ll wonder why, and how, and when, and he’ll have nothing to say to them, but he won’t tell them about Riddle.

If he mentions Riddle, it’ll be real. Riddle’s _ attentions_, whatever they are or what they mean, are a distraction, and if he mentions Riddle, he’ll be just like everyone else.

Caught in the path of a phoenix, waiting to be burnt by its flames.

And he’s a phoenix all on his own. He won’t be caught in Riddle’s fucking _ nonsense. _

So, he won’t say anything.

He forces himself to eat. He forces the bits of steak and kidney pie down his throat, finishes half of it until he’s stuffed, and he looks across the table, at Lavender, and feels a bit better.

She hadn’t been eating either. She does when he does.

And he wants her to be whole and healthy, because someone needs to want that for her, even if she doesn’t want it for herself.

_ (Sometimes, Harry doesn’t want it for himself. _)

“You’re in your head, aren’t you? You alright, Harry?” Ginny asks.

Harry blinks and looks up from the mush that he’s made, mashing down his steak and kidney pie. He doesn’t have an answer so he shovels another mouthful of food into his mouth, so he can consider words that won’t set Ron or Hermione off with worry. He swallows hard, and smiles over at her, relaxed and loose.

“Just fine. Thinking about how Defence went today,” Harry says.

This, he’s honest about.

He’d expected _ something _ from Riddle. Instead, Riddle had sat in the corner of the classroom, silently grading a few third-year essays while Moony had launched into the next unit, discussing proper defensive theory, the last unit before _ real _ dueling would take place. The anticipation had been practically _ palpable_.

“Are you worried? You’re ace at Defence, mate,” Ron reassures him.

Harry’s lips twitch into a smile. “No, I’m not _ worried _ . Just...you know, I’m _ much _better at the practical than the theoretical,” Harry insists.

Hermione sniffs. “If only you’d _ apply _yourself. All of the answers are in the text, Harry, I swear. You should take notes—”

“Harry doesn’t need notes,” Lavender proclaims. “None of his answers in class are ever based on the textbook.”

“And you would know?” Hermione bites out, pompously. “You never read the supplementary reading _ either _.”

If it were anyone else, those would be fighting words, and Harry would whisper something to Hermione about backing off. But, Lavender has always held her own rather well against Hermione. Lavender tilts her head and sniffs.

“That’s because I’m perfectly alright with applying myself in courses that are more _ relevant _to me and help my future, rather than succeeding just to succeed. Seems like a waste of time to me,” Lavender says pointedly.

Hermione is appalled by the very idea.

“Why are you taking Defence then?” Luna asks.

Ginny’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “Because _ Riddle_, right?” she asks. She waggles her eyebrows at Harry, and Harry looks down at his plate, rolling his eyes.

“Can we _ not _talk about Riddle?” Harry sighs.

“Why not?” Ron asks. “You used to be obsessed with him.”

Harry flushes as Luna, Ginny, and Lavender turn sharply to him.

“What?” Lavender squawks.

“I was _ not_,” Harry snipes.

Hermione snorts. “Habibi, you were—”

“I was not _ obsessed_,” Harry snarls, probably harsher than he needs to. Everyone falls silent. Harry takes a deep breath through his nose, breathes out. He looks at Lavender. “I said I knew everything I needed to know about Riddle. I do. I wasn’t obsessed. I just...knew him. When I was a first year. Then, we stopped knowing one another.”

There is more to it than that, and less to it too.

A Christmas spent at Hogwarts with nowhere else to go.

And a Chocolate frog.

That is all. And Harry doesn’t want to think about _ the— _

“Oh,” Lavender hiccups. She still stares at him, like she can dissect him, pull him apart and see his secrets, and Harry wants to run away from it all.

Harry shakes his head and smiles. He smiles the way that makes people stop and stare and stop forgetting the words that come out of his mouth _ (Lavender knows how to smile that way, maybe that’s why he feels such kinship with her, Sirius taught him out to smile this— _). He shrugs, nonchalant, and lets out a soft laugh.

“It was a long time ago. Ron likes to tease me,” Harry laughs. He smiles a little more easily, shovels more food into his mouth, and leans forward. “I have a few Quidditch plays that I wanted to run by you, Ginny, by the way—”

“Why not me?” Ron demands. “_ I’m _the strategist of the family!”

“Well, yes, but she’s the better Quidditch player,” Harry grins. He ignores Hermione’s watchful gaze and falls into easy conversation about power plays and Dionysus dives, something that distracts the two Weasleys, while Lavender, Hermione, and Luna fall into more intellectual conversation.

The entire time, Harry can feel Hermione casting side glances.

He very carefully doesn’t look across the Great Hall, where Riddle sits in the center of the Slytherin table, eating his food while the Death Eaters fawn over him.

“Who’s up for a round of Exploding Snap?” Ron asks when he’s polished off his second plate of food, and the Quidditch conversation dwindles.

“I have a practice OWL in History of Magic on Wednesday, and I’m _ incredibly _ill-prepared,” Ginny says as a way of excusing herself.

Hermione looks proud. “Lavender and I are revising in Arithmancy.”

Lavender looks put out, but also rather grateful for Hermione. Harry knows that Lavender enjoys the hard work of Arithmancy, but is still struggling, just the tiniest bit. Luna shrugs and shakes her head.

“I have to edit a piece for the Quibbler.”

Harry jerks around to look at her. “You’re a journalist now, Luna?”

Luna’s lips quirk into a tiny smile. “It’s part of my ongoing column about the hunt for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. My sources say that Newt Scamander may have found _ more evidence _.”

Hermione leans over to Ron and whispers, “I thought those were short stories.”

Luna doesn’t seem to hear her, and Harry smiles.

Ron groans. “Is _ everyone _ busy? What about _ you_, Harry?”

Before Harry can agree to an evening of slacking off, though he has a _ number _of assignments that mark his impending doom, he senses a presence behind him. A hand lands on top of his head and Harry grins, tilting his head back.

“Moony,” he greets.

Remus smiles down at him. “Harry, take a walk with me?”

Ron groans. “_Professor,_ you’re taking my Exploding Snap opponent away,” he complains.

“Shouldn’t you be doing that reading for my class on Wednesday?” Remus counters with a twinkle in his eyes. Ron sighs dramatically and shrugs his assent.

Harry jumps up excitedly. “I’ll play, Ron. Promise. I’ll be up soon enough.”

They both know that Harry and Remus can talk for hours, when they really get going. It’s much the same with Sirius. Harry used to think it was weird, wanting to spend time with his godparents so much; Ron did nothing but complain about _ his _parents, and Fred and George did the same before they’d dropped out of Hogwarts and became lucrative professional pranksters.

Hermione says that it’s because Harry has never had positive adult role models.

He accepts that logic as is, refusing to think any deeper about it.

In his mind, anything before the adoption is full of warning signs—_ DARK MEMORIES AHEAD, DO NOT APPROACH! _

Harry leans into Remus’ side for just a moment, taking in the scent of him; clean and wooly with a smother of dark chocolate. He’s always smelled like that. It grounds Harry.

They get through the Entrance Hall and are halfway between Gryffindor Tower and Remus’ study and apartment before Remus says anything.

“I saw...you were struggling to eat today?” Remus asks.

Harry’s good mood falters immediately.

“You’re monitoring my eating?” Harry retorts, the _ ‘again _’ implied. “You don’t have to worry about me, Moony.”

Remus stares down at him, a cross between serious and amused. “You’re my kid. I always worry about you.”

Harry feels that warmth, deep in his chest, and Remus wraps an arm around his shoulders. Remus is exceptionally tall, like Sirius, and Harry burrows into him, like he’s all of eleven years old again, meeting Remus for the first time and whispering, _ You want me? _, like he couldn’t believe it.

That was the first time Harry broke Remus and Sirius’ hearts.

It wouldn’t be the last.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about this. I ate,” Harry insists, under his breath. He presses his cheek into the soft knit of Remus’ sweater and inhales. Remus doesn’t say anything for a long time. Harry swallows. “I really did. I ate half of the steak and kidney pie. Breakfast was fine. My lunch was light, and dinner, I—”

“Alright, alright,” Remus says, because he can read Harry better than himself sometimes, and he could hear the anxiety churning in his tone. “I’m sorry that I pushed. I won’t push.”

Harry relaxes. “Thanks, Moony.”

“Are you keeping out of trouble, then?” Remus asks. “No more late-night escapades?”

Harry grins cheekily and thinks back to the Samhain party. His grin falters when he remembers fucking _ Riddle _, and all his fucking talk, and—

_ (every time I look at you, I’m reminded of how fucking beautiful you are.) _

—whatever, it’s fine.

“I had fun at the Samhain thing. And it was _ sanctioned _fun, mind you,” Harry quips with a grin.

Remus snorts, rolling his eyes. “Albus lets the Slytherins get away with murder, you know. He favors Riddle.”

“So, do _ you_,” Harry accuses. “He’s your assistant.”

Remus laughs. “He’s exceptionally good at what he does. Given any thought to filling his place next year?”

“And grading papers all year? I think _ not_,” Harry laughs.

“Would you like to come over for some hot chocolate? I want to know a little bit _ more _ about this _ Samhain _party,” Moony teases.

Harry grins. “There’s nothing I’d like _ more_, Uncle Moony.”


	3. TUESDAY, 11:03AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the Squad is back in town (not that they ever left)
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Guess who just got back today  
Them wild-eyed boys that had been away  
Haven't changed that much to say  
But man, I still think them cats are crazy
> 
> They were askin' if you were around  
How you was, where you could be found  
Told 'em you were livin' downtown  
Drivin' all the old men crazy
> 
> The boys are back in town  
(The boys are back in town)"
> 
> -The Boys Are Back In Town, Thin Lizzy

Break is usually the time where Harry wants to lounge around and do nothing but gossip and eat snacks. Unfortunately, he’s caught up scrawling out the conclusion of his Potions essay, which Snape is _ sure _ to grade harshly. Harry thinks the essay is pretty good, but the conclusion _ will _ be messy, and Snape _ will _hate him for it. It’s inevitable.

So, he doesn’t try as hard as he might’ve if he had more time.

He groans, rolling around in the grass, tugging his cloak a little tighter around his body to keep the damp chill from his skin. He rolls to the other side, grunting again.

“Do you need some attention?” Ginny asks, pulling away from her conversation with Luna.

Harry glares up at her. “_No_,” he bites out. “I just _ know _that I’m going to get a Troll on this Potions essay.”

Luna squeaks and reaches forward, gently tugging the parchment from his hands. She gives it a cursory glance and then looks up, her brow creased into a frown. “It isn’t _ that _bad. An Acceptable at the lowest.”

“Yes, but you forget _ Snape _teaches this class. He hates me,” Harry says.

Ginny frowns. “Why does Snape hate you? He’s..._ unpleasant_, but I never thought he targeted anyone in particular.”

Harry scoffs.

“So, you want to know the saga of the Marauders, Lily Evans, and Severus Snape?” he drawls, already rolling his eyes. “Come forth, children, and—”

“You’re so dramatic, Harry,” Luna chides. She’s staring down at his essay with narrowed eyes, tapping her chin as she mouths words to herself.

Harry gapes at her, shocked, and then bursts into laughter, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Snape and my mother grew up together, and then, it turned out she was a Muggleborn. They went off to Hogwarts, and it turns out, my father and Sirius were a pair of arseholes. They were bullies, for the sake of looking cool. And they grew out of it, yeah, like most kids do, but they were still _ arseholes_,” Harry spits, and that’s something that he’d had to contend with long ago, something that he’d thrown in Sirius’ face long ago.

“And he’s holding _ that _against you? How childish,” Ginny sniffs.

Harry shrugs. “He was in love with my mum too. I think…I think Snape is a complex guy, but also, just a massive arse.”

Harry will never forget the first time that he met Severus Snape. He’d been captivated by the enchanted ceilings in the Great Hall, the tables heaped high with food, jittering with all of the news that had hit him—the possibilities of a new life, a new family, a new _ world_—and then, he’d seen Snape. Snape had looked at him like he’d seen a ghost, and in half a second, Harry had watched Snape’s face crumple with grief, and then, rearrange into a sneer.

Harry has never been able to parse the meaning of that. He isn’t sure he wants to.

“How are you and Dean doing?” Harry asks. “You know. With the friend thing.”

Ginny says that Dean Thomas and her can stay friends. Harry has his doubts. Ginny knows him well enough now that she can read it in the slightly downturned corners of his lips. He has no faith in her, and for very good reason.

“We’re fine. We’re supposed to go to Hogsmeade together this weekend.”

“That sounds very _ date-like_,” Harry sings the last word, pointedly.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “We’re scoping out Zonko’s. Fred and George are talking about buying it out,” Ginny says. “You’d think _ you’d _know about that.”

“I don’t make it my business to know Sirius’ business dealings,” Harry snipes. He knows that investing in Weasley Wizard Wheezes was one of the first things that Sirius did when he came into control of his finances again, but he had never made it through pranking people.

“So, it’s...not weird?” Luna asks curiously. “You won’t be jealous when he starts dating other people?”

“Well, _ I’m _seeing other people and it’s not weird yet,” Ginny defends.

Harry raises an eyebrow. As far as Harry knows, they haven’t even managed to go on a single date. “Is that what you’re calling Zabini and your weird song and dance?”

“Is it a song and dance?” Ginny retorts.

“It’s..._ something_,” Harry says, referring to the strange eye contact that the pair have maintained over the last week and a half. Neither has made a move. It’s weird.

“Have you fucked?” Luna asks.

Ginny jumps violently at the question. “_Who_?”

“You and Dean. You and Blaise Zabini,” Luna says, blinking owlishly. “I presume you’ve already fucked Dean, but I mean, in the aftermath.”

“Why would she just...have sex with _ either _ of them?” Harry asks, squirming in discomfort. It’s different from when he was talking to Lavender. She needed help. She didn’t know what she was talking about. Talking about sex just for— _ ugh_.

“Ginny and Blaise are viscerally attracted to one another. Ginny and Dean would have break up sex,” Luna says, speaking slowly like she’s talking to a pair of idiots.

“No! Neither of those things have happened,” Ginny squawks. Her cheeks burn red.

“And you want them to?” Harry asks, amused. Ginny glares at him and he lifts his hand in surrender. “I’m just clarifying.”

“And what about _ you_, Potter? Any boys that _ you _ want to talk about?” Ginny demands. It’s the way she’s looking at him that clues him in on exactly what and _ who _she’s talking about.

“No, no boys,” Harry sighs.

Luna hums. “When did you realize that you liked boys, Harry?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at her, his lips twitching. “Well...I always knew that I liked boys. But, I didn’t always know that it was okay. It was only after being with Sirius and Remus and then...kinda realizing they were together—”

“Wait! You didn’t know they were _ together _?” Ginny cackles.

Harry flushes, rolling his eyes to placate his embarrassment. “Look, I thought ‘partners’ meant just like...living together. Not like _ partners _.”

Luna grins gracefully. “We all make mistakes, Harry.”

Ginny huffs, shaking her head and leans forward.

“Fuck, marry, kill. Hottest guys at Hogwarts, then,” Ginny says slyly. She waggles her eyebrows at Harry, her lips twitching into a smirk even as Harry very dramatically rolls his eyes. “Harry Potter, of course.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry laughs softly, shaking his head.

But Luna hums her agreement. “Oh, yes, you’re quite handsome, Harry. Pretty sometimes, too.”

“I am _ not_,” Harry insists.

Luna huffs. “Well, you wouldn’t be able to tell, would you? You wear glasses,” she teases.

Harry flushes, ducking his head. “You can’t include me if we’re going to play this stupid game.”

“Fine,” Ginny pouts. “Cedric Diggory…Blaise Zabini—”

“Your boy toy?” Harry retorts.

“He’s very handsome, Harry,” Luna says. Somehow, she sounds both patient and condescending. It’s a talent of hers that Harry usually loves. Currently, he’s resentful of it.

“And Tom Riddle,” Ginny grins.

Harry flushes, staring down at his lap. “_ Obviously, _kill Tom Riddle,” he mutters.

“Sure about that one, Potter?” Ginny teases.

Before Harry can snap at her, the slight swelling of sound around them gives way to Hermione and Ron bickering, Lavender smack right between them, ignoring the typical noises that the two make. Harry practically deflates with utter relief.

“—complicated bit of spellwork. It’s not _ my _fault, if you don’t—”

“I understand _ perfectly_—” Ron retorts in the face of Hermione’s condescension.

“Just _ show _ them,” Lavender huffs, effectively putting an end to it. She pulls her wand, jabbing it at the air with a swift, “_Muffliato_.”

The buzz of magical barriers settles in the shells of Harry’s ears.

Hermione turns to all of them, something unholy lighting up her eyes. “_ I _have crafted a way of communication for us,” Hermione declares.

Ginny raises an eyebrow. “Other than just talking?”

Hermione looks at her, insulted.

“We’re almost always near one another. Do we need another form of communication?” Luna asks quite innocently. She gasps excitedly. “Is it the chippering language of Blibbering Humdingers? I’ve been learning the language recently, and it’s all in the intonation—”

“No, Luna, it’s English,” Hermione interrupts before Luna can launch into a full story about Blistering Humpers, or whatever she’s just said. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a thin stack of parchment. She drops them into Luna’s lap. “I’ve enchanted these notepads so that we can keep in contact when we’re not near. It’ll be good.”

“_Interesting_,” Ginny praises. She reaches up with one hand, yanking Lavender down. Lavender topples into her lap, laughing, and with the other hand, she begins to disperse the books. Harry catches his own. “So, we’ll be able to keep tabs on one another. Or _ Hermione _can keep tabs on us.”

“That’s what I was saying!” Ron declares.

Hermione flushes. “I just want to keep you all out of trouble!” she insists.

Lavender smiles. “_Sure, _Hermione.”

Hermione, flustered, stammers over her explanations on why this is her greatest idea yet. Harry watches all of them and grins, laughing to himself.


	4. WEDNESDAY, 9:09AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there are arguments in Defence to be had.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Passionate from miles away  
Passive with the things you say  
Passin' up on my old ways  
I can't blame you, no, no
> 
> Passionate from miles away  
Passive with the things you say  
Passin' up on my old ways  
I can't blame you, no, no"
> 
> -Passionfruit, Drake

“As we approach the first practical unit of duelling, I want to do a refresher,” Remus says as he looks over the sixth year Defense class. He looks pretty youthful and energetic at the moment, and yet, still so relaxed. He stops his pacing and leans back on his desk, surveying everyone. “In the traditional sense, magic—and in particular, spells—can be classified. Can anyone list those classifications?”

Harry goes to raise his hand, but Hermione’s jerks up into the air first.

“Miss Granger,” Remus says, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Magic is traditionally broken up by function, and such the types are Transfiguration, charms, jinxes, hexes, curses, counter-spells, and Healing spells,” Hermione rattles out.

“Very good. Five points to Gryffindor,” Remus says. Hermione preens under his praise. “Magic, according to oral tradition, is separated into schools as well—”

“Light, Neutral, and Dark,” Hermione barks out before she rocks back as everyone breaks into snickers; she hadn’t even thought to raise her hand.

Remus smiles and nods. “Another five points, Miss Granger. Now, these schools are according to oral and cultural tradition and have no bearing on the spells themselves, nor who can or would use them, but for the sake of culture, we’ll agree that they exist. We talk about these three schools because the ethics and use of certain spells, known as _ Dark _magic, is important when the topic of duelling is raised.”

Harry nods firmly. He knows what Remus’ stance on Dark magic is—don’t use it—but he knows that Sirius is the type of guy who sometimes believes the ends justify the means. It’s one of their sticking points; he knows now not to raise a conversation on the subject in private unless he wants to hear a never-ending argument.

And then something interesting happens: Riddle leans forward and raises a finger to speak.

Remus looks surprised, but nods.

“Dark magic isn’t inherently bad,” Riddle says, his voice slow, low, and somehow _ cultured_. Harry stops himself from sneering. “Anything can be used to hurt.”

Remus nods. “This is very true. A Wingardium Leviosa used on a person could suddenly be ended, dropping them from a large height.”

“Then, why is using Dark magic more punishable?” Parvati Patil asks, hand in the air.

“Because it was designed _ to _ hurt.” Harry doesn’t even realize he’s spoken until Ron turns in his seat to stare at him. Everyone is staring at him, waiting for him to say something more. “Dark magic is Dark, is _ wrong_, because it was made with the intention to harm someone. That’s what makes the difference between a curse and a jinx.”

“But, we aren’t talking about classifications,” Greengrass says. “We’re talking about the schools of magic, which aren’t even well-classified or a qualified thought. Have you ever considered that certain types of magic are only classified as Dark is because of the Ministry’s bureaucratic biases?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at the thought. “Biases?”

“Well, a lot of Dark magic is being outlawed because it’s practiced by _ purebloods_,” Greengrass explains.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Yes, make it all about blood.”

“It _ is _about blood,” Riddle says coldly.

Hermione looks surprised that he’s addressed her at all.

Remus looks pleased with the intellectual conversation. “Do elaborate, Mr. Riddle.”

“Dark magic is typically practiced by purebloods. It’s passed down through oral tradition, and many spells are rooted in bloodline, learned from family grimoires. That’s a pureblood practice. Perhaps, Dark magic is being outlawed because not everyone has access to the magic being taught and learned within families,” Riddle says.

He sounds so pompous and sure of himself, and he’s looking at all of them like _ he’s _learned the darkest secrets his family had to offer. He looks at them like they’re not worthy of learning it too. He looks at them like Dark magic is everything.

“Dark magic is _ dark _magic. There’s a reason it’s illegal,” Harry snaps, glaring at Riddle directly now.

Riddle scoffs. “And that’s a reason to disregard an entire branch of magic?” Riddle drawls, turning in his seat, and Harry can feel everyone around them shifting; it’s rare for Riddle to provide anything close to a lecture.

It’s even rarer for someone to argue with him.

“If experts older and smarter than the both of us say so, then _ yes, _” Harry snaps and even if he might not completely agree, he’d rather stick to his argument than give Riddle a fucking centimeter.

“Age does not speak to intelligence,” Riddle dismisses. He leans forward, his chin balanced on steepled fingers and his fingers are _ long _; Riddle’s got the type of hands that Harry might’ve been jealous of, pianist’s hands.

“Neither does your high-and-mighty _ attitude_,” Harry retorts. “You don’t have to be such a fucking cliche all the time, Riddle.”

Remus looks surprised by the foul language. “Language,” he barks. “A debate is fine in my classroom, but you’ll be civil.”

“Sorry, Moony,” Harry spits out almost immediately. “You don’t have to be such a _ freaking _cliche all the time, Riddle. Just because you’re a Slytherin, doesn’t mean you need to act like one.”

Riddle looks amused. “My, my, Harry. You sound rather _ prejudiced_,” Riddle drawls. “That hurts my _ feelings _.”

He doesn’t sound like it. Harry wants to put his fist in his smug, fucking _ face. _

“Look,” Harry spits. “The Dark Arts is a form of magic meant to destroy. It’s inappropriate to use in a classroom setting or a duelling setting without the proper license to do so, and even that, I take issue with. It’s _ wrong. _”

And Harry means that, whole-heartedly. There is something about Dark magic that repulses him. The few times that he’s witnessed it, it felt like something was rotting inside of him, making his stomach turn, and rebel. He’d wanted to shed his skin, like a snake, because he hasn’t wanted to _ touch _ it. It made him feel _ dirty. _

_ (He’d wanted to be dirty again, after that, like an addiction that crept through the marrow, through the bush, through the—) _

“So, what would you do? Ban it altogether?” Riddle asks, like he’s genuinely curious.

“_ Yes _ , especially when it’s used at a disproportionate rate against half-bloods and Muggleborns,” Harry snaps. “Maybe, you’re right. Maybe it _ is _ about blood. But it’s about us not having the right blood, and so we’re subjected to _ violence _ of the Dark variety.”

Riddle hums. “But, hate crimes have fallen by seventy-two percent since...1985.”

Harry knows what he’s referencing. He was three in 1985. He sneers.

“Yes, it should be _ banned_.”

“Then, what about hexes? Jinxes?” Riddle challenges. Harry falters. “Come now, Harry, you have to know that those constitute as _ Dark _ magic. And Acromantulas, dementors, _ werewolves _. Under the law, that’s considered Dark too. Should we outlaw sentient Creatures, too?”

_ What your mother fought against? _ shouts between each word.

Harry looks over at Remus, helpless, but Remus looks between the pair, considering the ethical arguments with care. He’ll be no help.

“No…” Harry begins, forming his argument, but Riddle drives on, so intent on being Goddamned _ right. _

“The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing and eternal,” Riddle imposes, and there’s something heavy and awe-filled in his voice that makes Harry’s blood curdle. “Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.” [1]

Harry breathes heavily through his nose, like an angry bull. “Don’t talk _ down _to me, Riddle. I know about the Dark Arts,” he barks. Riddle leans forward, intrigued.

He hears a sharp, heady inhale from Lavender. Harry ignores her.

“Do you, _ really? _ ” Riddle purrs. “Do share with the _ class. _”

“You want to know why I don’t believe in an education in the Dark Arts?” Harry asks coldly. “Because there are people out there—_ sick, _ unbalanced people that need Mind Healers—that created spells that could bind a consciousness to an inanimate object. That created spells where all you want to do is scream, but you _ can’t _ , because look, you don’t have a mouth. Hexes and jinxes that creep, rotting and irreversible and _ marrow-deep_. And there are people that would...that would _ gladly _ do that to another person, in the name of whatever _ bullshit _ that they’ve concocted in their head to justify it, but really it’s all about innate _ evilness_.”

And Riddle blinks, slow and steady, drinking in every single word. He seems to consider them too.

And then he says: “There is no good and evil. There is only power and those too weak to seek it.” [2]

And finally, Harry’s fed up. A sickly smile spreads across his face as he regards Riddle and quite carefully, he snarls out: “Eat glass.” [3]

Riddle grins back.

The room is silent as Harry’s last words echo through the room. Everyone is unsure of where to look, so they all turn their gazes downward to their notes.

“Well, then, that was an interesting discussion—” Moony begins, clapping his hands.

“Potter’s interest isn’t so far fetched.”

The unwelcome contribution comes out of Malfoy’s mouth.

“And what’s _ that _supposed to mean?” Harry barks.

“Just you know an _ awful _ lot about the Dark Arts that you speak so against. But, like I said, your interest isn’t far fetched,” Malfoy says with a shrug, a sly look in his eyes. He glances over at Riddle, as if seeking approval, before turning his pointed silver stare back to Harry. “Which one of those _ terrible _spells was used on your parents, Harry?”

Hermione jumps almost violently in her seat, and she looks up, absolutely furious. Her hands clench into fists.

“Watch your _ mouth_, Malfoy,” Hermione hisses.

Before Moony can even react, Riddle stands up, his chair screeching against the ground. Quite bored, he sighs, “Detention with Filch tonight, Malfoy.”

Malfoy looks shocked that he’s facing punishment from Riddle. If Harry’s honest with himself, he feels the same shock. But, Harry’s rarely honest with himself, so he lets himself feel rage more. He glowers at Riddle and turns his glare back down to the table.

“And with _ that_,” Remus says with a well-placed glare directed at Malfoy, “our class ends. For Monday, I’d like a sixteen-inch essay about the ethics behind the usage of the Dark Arts. Feel free to reference Chapters 3 through 6 in _ Confronting the Faceless _.”

The class breaks into mumbles about varying things as they’re dismissed to dinner, but Harry can hear his name loud and clear. He doesn’t shift, packing his things slowly, even as Malfoy complains. Harry watches from the corner of his eye as Malfoy approaches Riddle.

“Riddle, that wasn’t—” Malfoy begins.

“You’ve been dismissed, Malfoy,” Riddle says without looking up from his papers, so blase that Malfoy flushes scarlet before he stomps out.

His dramatic exits aren’t as dynamic without Parkinson flapping after him; honestly, Harry hasn’t seen her at all. Something about her being ill.

Harry sighs and stands up even as Hermione crowds close to him.

“Harry, habibi, are you alright?” she whispers, almost frantic.

Before Harry can answer, a hand lands on his shoulder.

“Harry, can we speak?” Remus asks.

Harry winces, and he looks down at his feet, shaking his head. “I have to go do—”

“I’m asking as your guardian, not your professor,” Remus says, just a touch more insistent.

Harry only nods because Remus says ‘guardian’. He always so careful not to say ‘parent’, and honestly, Harry appreciates it.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Harry tells Hermione, Ron, and Lavender.

Lavender looks worried, but nods. She flounces out after casting another glowing, inquisitive look Riddle’s way. He doesn’t even pretend to notice. Hermione and Ron follow after her.

Harry shifts uncomfortably under Remus’ gaze and sighs as he fights to look up at him. Remus’ eyes are soft.

“Are you alright?” Remus says softly, repeating Hermione’s question.

Harry’s gaze darts over to Riddle, but Riddle continues to look over essays, pretending to give them privacy.

“I’m fine,” Harry says firmly. He shrugs, rolling his eyes. “It just...got out of hand, but I’m fine.”

“What Malfoy said—”

“Doesn’t _ matter_,” Harry insists.

Remus smiles and nods, knowing not to push. “Okay,” Remus says.

“Can I go?”

“No,” Remus says with a snort. “I wanted to ask you. Would you be interested in joining the duelling club this term? You’d be a great asset to the team and—”

At this, Riddle looks up, intrigued by the idea.

Harry scowls over at him. “Absolutely _ not_,” Harry says.

Remus follows Harry’s stare over to Riddle, and Riddle looks at them, his eyes full of such false innocence that even Remus rolls his eyes.

“Don’t let—” Remus mutters, joking and smiling.

This is no laughing matter. Harry will not _ laugh _about his brewing feud with Tom fucking Riddle.

“_No_,” Harry repeats, shaking his head. He takes a step back, and then darts forward, wrapping his arms around Moony briefly. “Thank you for checking on me.”

He pulls away and briskly leaves the room. He can feel Riddle’s stare. He hates it.

When he exits the classroom, he practically crashes right into Hermione’s back, where she stands mid-rant.

“—detention with Filch. He _ deserved _ it. How dare he complain, as if he was _ wronged_! I bet he wouldn’t say a single one of those words to Riddle’s face,” Hermione snarls, concluding what sounds like a very long-winded admonishment of Draco Malfoy’s heinous actions.

Lavender looks just as put out. “We should tell Ginny so that she can _ hex _him.”

Harry blanches. Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hex is...probably one of the most horrifying things he's ever witnessed.

“I wouldn’t wish that on _ anyone_,” Harry provides, and Hermione spins around, finally noticing him, though he’d just collided with her.

“Oh, Harry! Are you alright?” she asks.

“I’m _ fine_,” he says. Each time Harry says it, he feels like the word ‘fine’ loses its meaning a little more.

Lavender glomps onto Harry’s side. “That was _ mad_, Harry. Just mad. Malfoy was completely out of _ line_,” Lavender insists. She leans in, eyes wide. “And that argument with Tom was just—”

Before Lavender can finish her train of thought, her rambles falter into nothingness. She stares, wide-eyed, and so when Harry turns, he knows exactly who to expect.

“Do you need something, Riddle?” Harry barks.

Riddle casts him a look from the corner of his eye before he turns his full attention to Lavender.

“Hello, Brown. Your hair looks lovely today.”

And then Riddle walks away like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Harry glowers at Riddle’s back. Riddle glances over his shoulder and smirks.

_ Check_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling (I think Snape says it in this book, but if I'm wrong, just no Rowling wrote this lol)
> 
> [2] Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by J.K. Rowling
> 
> [3] Schitt's Creek, Season 4, Episode 1 [Dan Levy]--this show is hilarious. Watch it after you watch SKAM.


	5. WEDNESDAY, 4:07PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Lavender makes Harry lose his mind.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Well, I think you're crazy  
I think you're crazy  
I think you're crazy  
Just like me"
> 
> -Crazy, Gnarls Barkley

“He knows so much about _ everything_. I just can’t believe someone can be so—” Lavender says for the millionth time.

“So _ smart_, Merlin, how can anyone be so _ smart_,” Harry forces out through gritted teeth, mimicking the words that were sure to come out of Lavender’s mouth. Lavender’s giggly monologue about Riddle tapers off, and she stares at Harry with a glint of hardness in her eyes.

“Well, he _ is_. He proved _ you _wrong,” Lavender challenges.

Harry grinds his teeth as he looks up from his Transfiguration essay on the Principles of Re-Materialisation. He looks over at Hermione, sure the disbelief is painting his face. He expects her to agree with him, to disagree with Lavender, but she looks thoughtful.

“No, _ he didn’t_,” Harry forces out.

Lavender hums, lifting one lofty eyebrow. “Your argument for ignoring the uses of Dark magic was that it was illegal. That sounds very ‘Hermione-ish’,” Lavender says. She turns swiftly to appease Hermione’s outrage. “That wasn’t an insult, Hermione, I swear.”

Hermione purses her lips and glares at Lavender; she clearly doesn’t believe her. “Well, Riddle’s argument _ was _ interesting. To ignore an entire branch of magic, without considering how it can be _ repurposed_,” Hermione says.

Harry swallows back the bile building in the back of his throat.

“Well, excuse me for not wanting to use the branch of magic that killed my _ parents_,” Harry barks.

He regrets his statement almost immediately, as an awkward silence descends upon them.

“Malfoy was kinda right though, wasn’t he?” Lavender asks, innocently. “Not about what he said about your parents! That was out of line. But, you know a _ lot _about Dark magic, Harry.”

Harry stares past Lavender’s head, eyes trained on something far away. He breathes noisily through his nose, ignoring the curious stares, stares from even Ron and Hermione, who should know better by now.

The silence goes on for long enough that Ginny tears her eyes away from her reading and asks, “Hermione, can you explain this Vanishing Spell for me? I’m a little lost on the theory.”

It’s clearly a ploy to wreck Lavender’s train of questioning, and for a moment, Harry is endlessly grateful. He turns his gaze back to his work and sighs.

“Anyway,” Lavender sighs, “he said he thought my hair ‘looked _ lovely _’.”

Ron grumbles under his breath, rolling his eyes.

“It does. Perhaps it was just an observation,” Luna provides.

Harry pretends that doesn’t want to make him smirk, so he stares even harder at his chicken-scratch notes until his eyes water.

“Riddle is a stuck up arsehole, and you can do better than him,” Harry mutters under his breath. He knows it’s loud enough because a noticeable silence descends upon the table. He can feel Ginny _ and _Hermione’s knowing gazes.

Thankfully, Ron chimes in with a, “Harry’s right, Lavender. You’re too good for _ him_.”

Lavender looks at Ron with pursed lips, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. Ron reddens under her stare, and he looks down at his homework. Hermione takes up where he left off.

With a gentleness that isn’t very Hermione-like in the slightest, she says, “You really are too good for him, Lavender. Riddle is an arrogant know-it-all.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Ginny jokes, nudging Hermione in the side.

Her teasing successfully derails the seriousness of the conversation and Harry’s grateful as the pair begin to bicker. The conversation on Riddle ends, and _ everything _is exactly as it should be.


	6. THURSDAY, 2:13PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is charmed and is pissed about it.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Gonna be you and me  
It's gonna be everything you  
You've ever dreamed  
It's gonna be who and me  
It's gonna be everything  
Gonna be you and me  
Gonna be everything you  
You've ever dreamed"
> 
> You & Me (Flume Remix), Disclosure

Harry hates the library. It’s largely Hermione’s domain, and he only tolerates it when she’s present. Of course, she’s not currently present—after Thursday’s afternoon lesson in Charms, Hermione always has Ancient Runes— and so this is the only exception in which he’ll go to the library alone, because really, he doesn’t need anyone seeing where he’s going.

He keeps his head low as he sneaks by the back aisles, his destination in sight. Remus’ note burns in his pocket, permission for the Restricted Section. Of course, Remus’ own _ hand _ hadn’t written it. Sirius made sure that Harry knew Remus’ handwriting down cold, the summer that they’d officially adopted him. Something about having avenues out of mischief.

Harry sends up a thanks to Sirius and hopes he gets it, wherever he’s fucking around at. He’ll be around for dinner on Saturday, but currently, Harry thinks Sirius is in America, getting his magical Harley Davidson motorbike looked at by a magical specialist. He’s always off gallivanting somewhere, making up for lost time spent in Azkaban.

Remus never cares as long as Sirius makes it to the weekly suppers that the whole family is made to attend, though Harry can get out of it, if he really begs.

Harry has an essay on the ethics of the Dark Arts to write. And the only place to find books on the Dark Arts is the fucking Restricted Section.

So, he walks in as if he belongs, and pretends that he doesn’t know _ exactly _ where all the books on the Dark Arts are. He knows that he wants the Godelot book and _ maybe _ Owle Bullock’s _ Secrets of the Darkest Arts_, though he’s not sure if he’ll really need the second one. He doesn’t need the details, really. He just needs references.

He knows Riddle’s going to read the essay, so it’s going to be the best damn essay that Harry’s ever fucking written in his life. He stands on his toes to look at the shelves, scanning the rows for the familiar dark and crimson leather bindings. He taps over the spines of _ The Nightshade Guide to Necromancy _ and _ The Imperius Curse and How To Abuse It _. Neither are what he’s looking for. He wants something broad.

Briefly, he wonders why Dumbledore hasn’t locked these books up yet.

“Aren’t you a little lost, Harry Potter?”

The smug arrogant tone belies the identity of the voice’s owner. Harry huffs loudly through his nose and he turns around to see Riddle leaning against a nearby bookshelf. Harry looks up and down the aisle, searching for another soul, a witness of some sort, but he finds none. Alone, then.

_ Good_.

“No, I’m not,” Harry snaps. “I have a pass for the Restricted Section.”

“In the Dark Arts section?” Riddle continues. “I _ feel _like we just had a rather lengthy debate about the ethics of learning the Dark Arts.”

“I may _ feel _a certain way about it, but clearly Moony feels another. I’m writing a paper,” Harry retorts. “As you very well know.”

Riddle hums, nodding his agreement. He continues to stare at Harry with burning burgundy eyes, like he’s undressing Harry with his stare. Harry flinches, shoulders curling inwards; Riddle always has the ability to make him feel stripped bare and vivisected, like Riddle could see into the softest parts of him. Harry peruses the shelves instead, humming when he continues to miss the book that he’d gone to look for anyway.

He feels the weight of Riddle’s stare growing.

“Do you _ mind _?” Harry snarls, refusing to look at Riddle.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Riddle drawls.

Harry huffs. “I don’t know _ anything _about the Dark Arts. I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“So, it wouldn’t be _ Magick Moste Evile _by Godelot?”

Harry whips around, eyes narrowing on the scarlet bound book in Riddle’s hands. Riddle opens it, flipping through the pages rather lackadaisically, a soft ghostly wail swelling from the pages, before a tap of Riddle’s wand silences it.

“Give it here, _ Tommy_,” Harry says.

Riddle hums. “Do you even know what’s _ in _ this book? I don’t know if you’d feel comfortable, seeing as you despise the Dark Arts,” Riddle says, a teasing glint in his eyes. He hums, looking Harry up and down again, and this time, Harry _ doesn’t _flinch. He just sneers.

Riddle is charming, and he knows it too. It’s the type of bullshit Lavender fell for. Harry won’t.

He _ won’t_.

“Tommy, come here. We need to talk.”

Riddle laughs softly, amused as Harry summons him so gracelessly. He snaps _ Magick Moste Evile _ shut audibly, and the corners of his lips turn up, but Harry wouldn’t call it a smile or a smirk.

“We _ need _to?”

Harry puts his hands on his hips and nods. “Yes.” He takes a step closer, now that they’re truly alone. Harry can’t even hear the other people in the library, this deep into the Restricted Section. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Riddle asks innocently.

Harry scowls. “You know what. With Lavender,” he snaps. He tilts his head as he regards the boy. He can’t read anything in that face. He doesn’t understand him at all. “You keep giving her attention and she’s going to get her hopes up.”

“I haven’t encouraged her at all. I’ve been _ nice_,” Riddle drawls, and he says the word ‘nice’ with such distaste that Harry would smile if it was anyone else.

But, this _ isn’t _anyone else. It’s Tom Riddle, the fucking asshole.

“Don’t pretend to be stupid.”

“I haven’t promised Lavender Brown _ anything _, and I never did. She knew what we were doing,” Riddle says firmly and he takes another step forward. Harry wants to flinch back, but he refuses to give Riddle any ground. “It isn’t my fault if she doesn’t understand that the word ‘acquaintance’ is not a synonym for ‘long term partner’.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “She’s _ infatuated _with you. She can’t help it. You need to discourage her, instead of smiling at her and touching her shoulder,” Harry retorts.

Riddle stares at him for a long moment, long enough for the silence to tense, and then, he smirks.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous,” Riddle declares, so charming.

So fucking _ fake. _

“If you _ hurt _her, I will kill—” Harry begins, his voice deepening into a snarl.

“Do you know Aivazovsky’s_ The Ninth Wave _?” Riddle interrupts.

Harry startles. “No,” he mutters.

“You look like it.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Fuck you.”

Riddle’s smirk softens into a smile. “You do,” he confirms.

“You’re fucking weird,” Harry says, startled beyond belief. He rudely pushes past Riddle and snatches _ Magick Moste Evile _from Riddle’s hands. Riddle barks out a laugh but doesn’t steal the book back. Harry lifts his chin, feeling just a little bit lighter after that interaction as he makes to leave the Restricted Section.

He’s at the end of the aisle, near the exit, and then—

“Harry Potter.”

Harry pauses and turns around to look at Riddle, raising one eyebrow. Riddle stares down at him, and he has that look in his eye, the one that Harry has seen twice before now, and this was the third.

“What?” Harry snaps.

“Go on a date with me.”

Harry scoffs. “Fuck you!” he insists, even louder this time.

He leaves the Restricted Section, eyes trained forward, feeling the weight of Riddle’s gaze on his shoulders. He feels his face do something weird.

When Harry touches his mouth, he realizes—he’s smiling.


	7. SATURDAY, 9:37PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry, Sirius, and Remus celebrate his last detention!
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "There's a fire starting in my heart  
Reaching a fever pitch, and it's bringing me out the dark  
Finally, I can see you crystal clear  
Go ahead and sell me out, and then I'll lay your shit bare  
See how I'll leave with every piece of you  
Don't underestimate the things that I will do  
There's a fire starting in my heart  
Reaching a fever pitch, and it's bringing me out the dark"
> 
> -Rolling in the Deep, Adele

“CONGRATULATIONS!”

There’s an explosion of red and gold sparks, followed by the obnoxious roar of a lion.

Harry grins, rolling his eyes as Sirius gives him spirit fingers and an obnoxious smile. He steps to the side, and Harry raises an eyebrow at Remus. Remus rolls his eyes but doesn’t exactly look up from his book. But, Harry sees the smile playing around the corners of his lips.

“Thanks. What’s all this for?” Harry asks.

“Your _ last _detention. It’s a celebration!” Sirius cheers. He grabs Harry in a headlock that transforms into a tight hug, punctuated with a kiss to the top of Harry’s head. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, Siri,” Harry says, pressing tighter into the hug for a moment before he disentangles himself and searches through the cupboards for something to eat. “Moony, I’m _starved_. I missed dinner. Is there—”

“Your friend Dobby was kind enough to bring us a late dinner. On the kitchen table,” Remus directs. He doesn’t get up, having already eaten probably. Sirius and Harry exchange looks of excitement.

Whenever Dobby brings dinner, it’s always a collection of their favorites. The pair of them rush to the kitchen table, practically bouncing with excitement.

Harry tries to go for the treacle tart first, but Sirius elbows him jokingly and says, “Meat and potatoes first, kiddo.”

“I’m going to be _ seventeen,_” Harry groans.

Sirius grins, looping an arm around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of Harry’s head again. It happens so often Harry’s used to it. “You’ll always be kiddo to me,” Sirius murmurs.

Harry snorts and pulls away from under Sirius’ arm, going to make his plate.

“How was America?”

Sirius pouts. “The motorbike is under _ extreme _renovation. I hadn’t realized how much I let the charms deteriorate. Nearly crashed her.”

“Sirius!” Remus shouts from the sofa. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“Oops,” Sirius grins, roguishly. He winks at Harry, and Harry smothers his laughter into the crease of his arm as he grabs two forks and knives while Sirius grabs the napkins. The pair join Remus back in the mini living room.

Harry curls up, plate in his lap, and dives in.

Remus shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “And how was _ your _week, Harry?”

“Long. Snape was a bastard, as per usual—”

“_Professor _Snape,” Remus corrects.

Sirius smirks. “Professor Snivellus,” he retorts. “Still snivelling around?”

“As _ always, _ ” Harry confirms. “And my _ Defence _professor let things get a little out of hand this week.”

He adds a smile, but Remus rolls his eyes. Sirius perks up, suddenly a lot more interested when the subject is one of his two favorite people in the world.

“What’s this about?” Sirius asks.

“_Well_, Harry and my TA got into it a bit about...the ethics of Dark magic. I happened to assign an essay on the matter,” Remus says. He leans forward and his lips tilt into a smile. “It’s not that I disagree with you, Harry. But, as an educator, I should allow difference of opinion in my classroom. Students come from all manners of background and education.”

Harry scoffs. “But _ his _ opinion is _ wrong _.”

Sirius holds up hands. “Wait, wait. Which ‘his’ are we talking about? Who’s your TA?”

“Tom Riddle. The Heir of Slytherin that your aunt and uncle’s family practically fosters,” Remus says.

Sirius’ nose wrinkles. “_ Oh_, ickle little Bella is _ obsessed _with him. Cissy and Andromeda say that he’s all she talks about,” Sirius says. “What’s your opinion on him, Harry?”

“Riddle is..._ infuriating,” _ Harry hisses between clenched teeth. He ignores Sirius and Remus’ exchanged glances. “He’s a proud, know-it-all arsehole, and I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that he _ practices _the Dark Arts.”

“He has a license,” Remus allows. He raises his hands in surrender when Harry’s head whips around, his eyes narrowed with righteous fury. “For the Duelling Club. He’s quite talented.”

“Are you jealous of his talent?” Sirius asks curiously.

Harry scoffs. “_ No _.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but I wonder about them all the time—the two of them duelling. It’d be interesting,” Remus says. He shakes his head, stopping himself from going into a deeper musing on the subject. “But, this grudge seems more..._ personal _.”

And Harry looks between his godparents. He looks from Sirius to Remus and sighs as he leans forward, recognizing that he can put his trust in them.

“Tom Riddle...has acquaintances. Or at least, that’s what he calls his little boyfriends and girlfriends. He’s always got one from each House. And they always fall in love with him, and he _ always _dumps them, horrifically. Everyone knows,” Harry says.

Remus’ eyes widen. “_ What_? Tom _ Riddle_? Tom Riddle, who is the pride and joy of Hogwarts?”

“Yes, _ that _Tom Riddle,” Harry sniffs. “Well—”

“Did he do that to _ you _ ?” Sirius demands. “I’ll hex him _ myself _!”

“No!” Harry protests. “He didn’t do it to me. He did it to Lavender. And she’s still in love with him even though _ your _cousin and Riddle humiliated her. Riddle pretended not to recognize her. She was...well, she was a virgin before him.”

Sirius grimaces. “Yikes. That’s…”

“He’s the king of prats,” Harry proclaims flatly. He shovels food into his mouth, ignoring the stares from either Sirius or Remus. He knows that they’re thinking over his words. He knows that they think he’s being dramatic too. “I put him in his place though. I wasn’t going to let him speak to my _ friend _like that.”

“And you shouldn’t,” Sirius agrees.

“And he thinks he’s just _ so _smooth,” Harry mutters under his breath as he finishes up his food, and sighs when Sirius’ plate is scraped clean too.

“What does _ that _me—”

Sirius’ words trail off as Harry stands, and begins to collect plates. Harry realizes his mistake immediately and winces when he sees the stricken look on Sirius’ face.

Gently, Remus works Sirius’ plate out of Harry’s hands, and says, “Harry, you don’t have to do that anymore. We’re still at Hogwarts.”

Remus waves his wand, Banishing the plates off to the Kitchens, and Harry’s cheeks burn with humiliation. Before he can apologize, Sirius drags him into a tight hug that Harry folds into, tucking himself tight against Sirius’ side.

Sometimes, Harry forgets. He forgets that he isn’t anyone’s servant anymore. He forgets that he doesn’t need to clean without being asked, for fear of a well-placed smack. He forgets that he doesn’t have to stand by the stove and slave away, morning, noon, and night, hands permanently pocked with burn scars. He forgets that he doesn’t have to feel the hollow in the pit of him.

Sometimes, Harry forgets, and it’s always humiliating when he does.

_ (He hates seeing that look on Sirius’ face—a stench accompanies it: humiliation, failure, rage, and disappointment. It’s not for Harry, but sometimes, the id tells him it is) _

“Well, Riddle’s an arse,” Sirius insists, wiping that _ look _off his face.

Harry buries his face in Sirius’ shoulder and nods. “Yeah, he is,” he mutters.

“What else is going on with you? Last detention tonight, eh?” Sirius asks with a tiny grin. “Any parties coming up?”

“Not that I know of,” Harry says dryly. “Honestly, I think everything’s shaping up to be a rather boring term.”

His mind wanders as he sits in comfort, tucked into Sirius.

He wants it to be a boring term. Harry wants that more than anything. He wants Exploding Snap with Ron. He wants thestrals with Luna. He wants Quidditch with Ginny. He wants Hermione to nag him about doing his homework. He wants to laugh with Lavender about petty gossip.

And then, the words, _ Go on a date with me _, echo in his head.

He remembers burgundy eyes.

_ (He pretends that he doesn’t want that—he doesn’t want that— _

_ he might want that) _

_Do you know __Aivazovsky’s_ The Ninth Wave?

“Remus,” Harry starts off, slowly. Remus looks up, sharply. It’s rare that Harry will call him that in private, so used to ‘Moony’. Sometimes, if Harry thinks hard enough, he might remember shadows from before that night, a ‘Moo-y’ and a ‘Pa-foo’. “Do you know much about Muggle art?”

“Some. Your mother and I went to museums often,” Remus says.

Harry feels something warm building in his chest. He smiles against Sirius’ shoulder at the mention of his mother.

“Do you know the painting...the Eighth Wave? Wait...no, _ The Ninth Wave _?” Harry asks.

Remus’ brow furrows for a moment and then, he slowly nods. “I might...have a _ print _ of it. Let’s see... _ Accio _1800s’ Art book?”

Remus sounds uncertain, and yet, he makes a soft noise when a book slips off his bookshelf and zooms over to his lap. Remus pats the seat next to him and Harry crawls away from Sirius towards Remus, eyes wide as Remus flips open the book.

“_ The Ninth Wave _ by Ivan Aivazovsky. He’s Russian, as I’m sure you can tell by the name. He was a marine painter, capturing scenes at sea,” Remus explains as he peels past prints. “This was your mother’s copy of this book, actually. It’s part of a collection of charmed Muggle paintings that move.”

“That’s really cool,” Harry murmurs as he looks at the flipping washes of color, bright and shimmering. He’s haunted by them, and he wonders if he touches the pages, he’ll feel his mother’s hand against his.

“I would say _ The Ninth Wave _is Aivazovsky’s most known work,” Remus says. “Ah, here it is.”

And Harry loses his breath as he stares at the crashing wave, sea foam cresting forth, spilling like froth. The sun pierces through, casting the water in a crystal green, like the color of emeralds. The sun is murky behind the clouds, but the light illuminates from the inside. It’s the end of a storm, nature turned violent and gorgeous, and somehow divine as the waterlogged men cling to debris shaped in a cross.

“It’s meant to be a commentary on the dual nature of _ nature _. Destructive and devastatingly beautiful,” Remus says.

Harry swallows, dragging his finger over the rising wave as it goes higher and higher, threatening to swallow the painting whole.

And to himself, he whispers, “He said I looked like _ The Ninth Wave _.”

He doesn’t notice the looks exchanged over his head.


	8. TUESDAY, 5:57PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry witnesses Duelling Club.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Mount Everest ain't got shit on me  
Mount Everest ain't got shit on me  
'Cause I'm on top of the world  
I'm on top of the world, yeah"
> 
> -Mount Everest, Labrinth

Harry sighs as he stalks down the hall, eyes tracking the ceiling as he makes his way to dinner. He feels his bag bounce against his hip, and he tries to forget the books on Dark Magic that sit in his bag. He purses his lips as he thinks about how he let Tom Riddle fucking _ get _to him, implying that Harry didn’t know anything about Dark magic. As if Harry hadn’t formed his opinions on his own.

He hopes that Riddle will feel fucking _ stupid _ when he reads his essay. He even wrote an entire _ draft _during his free period, one that he doesn’t share with either Hermione or Ron—for some reason, Ron had elected to continue with Care, and when he’d realized that Harry wasn’t, he’d tried to drop. McGonagall hadn’t let it happen.

He’s nearly to the Great Hall, and then, he hears a savage, _ “Diffindo_!” followed by a “_Confringo_!”

Harry gasps as he hears the two destructive spells, and then an explosion, and he practically jogs down the hallway to see where the chaos is coming from. He skids to a stop when he looks into the classroom, through the thin magical barrier. The Shield wavers in front of him, just slightly distorting his vision, as if he’s in need of glasses, despite having his perched on his nose.

He stares into the room and realizes that he’s come across the _ duelling club_.

And what a _ duel_.

Riddle makes it look as easy as breathing, batting away hex after jinx after curse, not a single word escaping his mouth as the Lestrange brothers advance on him. Honestly, to Harry, it looks like Riddle’s toying with them. His lips are curled into a slight smile as he bounces back and forth on his heels, sweeping around the dueling platform in an arc. His burgundy eyes flick around, as if he’s noticing something, before he turns back to the Lestranges.

Something deadly settles over his shoulders, and Riddle stops playing around.

He goes after them with a savagery that seems unwarranted. A savagery that makes Harry lose his own breath.

Riddle arcs a spell that drips with power at Rabastan, blasting him off the duelling platform and sending him crashing into a collection of desks by the wall. Bellatrix twitches but continues to stare at Riddle with something like awe in her eyes.

Harry watches Rodolphus’ Adam’s apple bobble in his throat. Rodolphus grits his teeth, steeling himself and then he falls into a classic duelling stance, arms raised defensively. Riddle doesn’t even bother doing that. Instead, he spins, putting a corkscrew on what Harry recognizes as an _ Incacerous_, followed by an _ Incendio_. An explosion of fiery ropes attempts to bind themselves to Rodolphus’ body, if he hadn’t batted them away.

Still, Rodolphus escapes with singed robes.

“_Tom_!” he complains, in that reedy voice of his.

Harry’s almost surprised that Rodolphus sounds like that, though he shouldn’t be. It’s not like he’s heard Rodolphus Lestrange speak very often.

Rodolphus’ stance is weak. Riddle can tell because he follows up his spells with a quick slam of his elbow on Rodolphus’ shoulder, sending him to his knees. Rodolphus falls flat on the duelling platform and rolls away, and continues to roll as Riddle sends playful hexes, just shy of missing him each time. When Rodolphus jumps back up to his feet, he immediately raises a Shield Charm against the onslaught.

And it’s beautiful.

_Riddle _is beautiful.

Harry hates it.

He can think of at least three different ways to beat Riddle. He isn’t sure if they’d succeed, but at least he wouldn’t look like prey, at the mercy of a great snake.

Riddle is just playing games and he’s beautiful at it.

Rodolphus seems to finally realize that he’s not going to win this one. He crosses his wand over his chest, yielding, but that doesn’t seem enough to Riddle. Riddle blasts him off the platform, and Rodolphus flies, going to join his brother.

“TOM!” he shouts, more annoyed.

Riddle throws his head back and laughs. Harry flinches.

He’s never heard Riddle laugh before. It’s deep and slow and lovely.

“That was good, Tom,” Bellatrix drawls, her lips curling into a slow smile. And then, suddenly, her gaze darts over to Harry, catching him in the web of her stare. “And it looks like we have a little spectator. Ickle, baby _ Potter_.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly, all of those eyes are on him.

Except for Riddle.

Bellatrix slides off the desk and slowly walks towards Harry. Harry takes another step backward before he turns his spine to iron and he stares at her, balefully. Bellatrix’s lips twitch and she slowly shuts the door in Harry’s face, deliberate and calculated.

And just for a moment, Riddle’s gaze flickers up to meet Harry’s.

Harry turns his back on them all before the door can slam shut in his face.


	9. THURSDAY, 12:07PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Ginny tries a new turn of phrase, and Harry grapples with decisions.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Be a part of the love club  
Everything will glow for you  
You'll get punched for the love club  
For the love club"
> 
> -The Love Club, Lorde

Harry looks very deliberately at Lavender’s ear as she chatters on about Arithmancy. He pretends to be paying attention to her and Hermione’s conversation or Ron’s conversation with Luna about the ethics of magical zoos, but really he’s looking at the Slytherin table.

He’s watching the Death Eaters sitting in the very center of the table, practically parallel to Harry and his friends. Bellatrix is bouncing up and down in her seat, wielding her spoon like a sword as she chatters to the Lestrange brothers, Rosier, and Nott. Rodolphus looks a little enamoured by her, if Harry’s honest, but it’s in vain. Every thirty seconds, Bellatrix casts her eyes towards their leader, but Tom Riddle is paying far too much attention to the black journal that Harry has seen in hand, the end of a quill caught between slightly thin lips.

Suddenly, Riddle looks up, like he’s sensed Harry staring, and Harry’s gaze darts towards Ron’s face, and he nods along to whatever Luna is saying.

“Harry agrees with me,” she notes, beaming. “Shouldn’t creatures just roam wild and free? The whole Earth really _ does _belong to the heliopaths. We’re just lucky to live here.”

“Uh, what?” Harry stammers.

Before he can dispel any assumptions Luna’s made about his position on something like _ that_, Ginny bounces into the Great Hall, practically skipping, her lips curled into a wide smile.

“ ‘Sup, bitches.”

“‘Bitches’?” Hermione drawls, nose wrinkling as Ginny chews on an enormous wad of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum.

Ginny blows a wide pink bubble and lets it pop on her tongue as she collapses next to Hermione, tossing her bag onto the floor carelessly.

“Sorry, trying something new. Did we like it?” Ginny asks.

“I didn’t mind,” Lavender says just as Luna giggles, “I like it!”

Hermione rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Hello, Ginevra,” Ron drawls and he snorts when Ginny elbows him hard in the side. Ginny leans into his side, like that’s supposed to ask for forgiveness, but it only ends with the pair of them giggling as they try to pinch one another.

“Was there something you wanted to say, Ginny?” Hermione sighs, miffed after being knocked into one too many times.

Ginny slaps Ron’s hand away one last time, and then she grins at the table at large. “We’re no longer in detention,” she announces.

Lavender’s nose wrinkles. “Well...yes. I think you’re about five days late for that one, Ginny,” Lavender says, gently condescending.

Harry snorts in the crease of his arm, and the corners of Lavender’s eyes crinkle as she smiles over at him. It makes his stomach clench when he thinks about a boy, tall and dark-haired _ (and handsome_) and arrogant.

_(Go on a date with me.)_

“We should go out now that we’re no longer in detention,” Ginny says with a shrug. Almost immediately, Lavender and Luna are intrigued by the idea. Ron is nodding like his sister’s said something that’s genius, just as Hermione shakes her head.

“We _ just _—”

“There is no ‘we’. You only had detention _ once_,” Ginny warns.

“And she went three times for _ solidarity_,” Harry insists.

Ginny snorts, her lips curling into a slow smile. Hermione bumps her head against the side of Harry’s in acknowledgment of his words.

“We just finished with detention. And you want to risk it again?” Hermione says. She shakes her head. “Besides I haven’t heard a whisper of a single party.”

“That’s probably because people think we’re going to brawl in their common rooms and get everyone in trouble,” Ron provides. Everyone turns to look at him in surprise. Ron looks caught out for just a moment and swallows thickly. “Haven’t you heard?”

“Well, obviously not, Ron,” Lavender chastises. “What’s this about ‘brawling’?”

“People are...afraid of us? Just because of what happened with Malfoy, and then, Romilda Vane and that lot. We won, and so now, people think that if anyone messes with one of us—” Ron starts.

Lavender’s squeal cuts him off and draws the attention of a few nearby lunch-goers. She pays them no mind. “We’re so _ cool_,” she sighs.

“That is _ not _ cool,” Hermione insists. She draws herself up, lifts her chin and shakes her head. She looks around at them all and shakes her head. “We shouldn’t be looking for _ more _trouble.”

“At least, not so soon,” Ron contributes, unhelpfully. He grins, ignoring the put-out look that Hermione shoots his way.

Ginny looks thoroughly annoyed by the direction of the conversation and she looks to Harry, like he’s their _ leader_, like he’ll be the one to decide. “What do you think Harry? Should we do something Friday to celebrate the fact that we’re no longer in detention?”

Lavender sends her biggest puppy dog eyes his way. It’s those eyes that convince Harry to make his decision.

He might have other plans on Friday.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Harry begins. Lavender and Ginny groan, while Hermione makes a squeak of victory. He looks over at Ginny and winks. “You need to sleep well to prepare for Quidditch practice.”

“Oh right,” Ginny drawls, her nose wrinkling. “Do we really? We’ve done Quidditch practice with the three of us hungover before.”

“Yes, and Ron was sick all over the Pitch.” Harry grins.

Ron groans. “Hey! How about you get hit in the stomach ten times with Quaffles being thrown at a hundred kilometers per hour.”

Ginny flexes her bicep and smirks. “Can’t help being this _ nice_,” she grins.

Harry grins, rolling his eyes, and settles into lunch, finally able to eat.

_ No one has to know. _


	10. THURSDAY, 7:47PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry stops grappling with decisions and just makes one.

Harry tries his very best to focus on his Potions homework. He knows that Snape has a grudge against him because of some childhood bullshit that Sirius and his father pulled, and he knows that no one will really _ do _ anything about it, so he has to try. And yet, he can’t focus at all. Not even Hermione’s sighing—done only when she’s trying to goad him into talking about his _ feelings _ or get him to focus—is helping. Instead, he drops his forehead onto his parchment, uncaring about the wet ink that is surely staining his skin.

That seems to be the final straw for Hermione.

“Harry, are you okay?” she asks briskly, setting down her quill and turning entirely in her seat to look at him.

He turns his face, sighing when his cheek hits cool wood. “I’m fine.”

“You sure, mate? You’ve been...spacey since lunch,” Ron mentions, always hesitant to be the first one to bring it up. Now that Hermione’s given ‘permission’, he’s leaping onto the train. Harry fights the urge to groan in dismay.

“Yeah, I’m...worried?” Harry says. This is true. He _ is _worried. “I’m worried about Lavender.”

Ron’s face falls into a grimace. “Because of Riddle?”

“Yeah, because of Riddle.” They’re sitting in the most central part of the library, where all of the shelves create walls around them, and in the middle are a group of study tables. Harry looks across it at Tom Riddle who sits closest to the shadows, studiously doing his homework.

Harry’s stomach flips_—turns_.

“I am too,” Hermione admits, almost like it hurts to do it. Her brow furrows and it’s moments like these that Harry wishes that he could parse her expressions. He’s never been good at reading the creases in her brown face, far too complex for him when his head is full of his own mess.

“You are?” Harry asks.

“Yes. Riddle isn’t...he’s unkind to her. Lavender doesn’t deserve that,” Hermione says, her frown deepening as she stares down at the table.

“He’s more than just ‘unkind’. He’s a bloody arsehole. He talks about her to his friends. He ignores her and is just stringing her along. I have a mind to hex him,” Ron snarls, and Hermione shakes her head, looking over at the boy.

“No,” she corrects. Ron looks surprised. “Lavender is practically an adult. She can do what she wants, even if that means embarrassing herself in front of the Death Eaters. We can’t do anything about it.”

None of it sits well with the three of them, but that’s clear. Harry sighs as he thinks about Lavender. Sweet, innocent Lavender who so desperately wants to believe in the fairytale of Tom Marvolo Riddle that she won’t even consider that maybe it’s more of a fable. A lesson to be learned about handsome, witty, arrogant boys and the games they play.

“What if there was something I could do?” Harry says.

Hermione looks at him strangely, like she’s trying to dissect him. Harry glances quickly over to Ron, but Ron looks just as curious.

“Besides verbally destroy him like you did last time?” Ron asks. His lips twitch. “That was _ epic_.”

Harry grins. “Thanks.”

Hermione is still frowning. “Well, I don’t think there is. You can’t really control either of them, can you? She’s going to be obsessed with him, until it runs its course, and he’s going to think it’s funny to string her along.”

Harry wonders if that’s why he does it. Because he finds it funny.

_What if there was something I could do?_

There is something that Harry _ can _do.

Instead, he nods and sighs, looking around. He pulls his wand and murmurs, “_Tempus_.” He frowns at the time and shrugs. “I’m exhausted. And a little burnt out. I’m going back to the Tower.”

Hermione doesn’t look surprised, but more pensive. Thoughtfully, she nods, and Harry flips his potions textbook closed, never taking his eyes off of Hermione. She doesn’t look away either, utterly unflinching. She pulls her wand.

“_Scourgify_,” Hermione says sharply, and Harry yelps loud enough to draw the attention of the other students as the ink disappears from his skin in a rather painful moment.

“Thanks,” he drawls, quite truly _ unthankful _ because _ bloody hell, Hermione _.

“You’re welcome,” she retorts, her lips twitching into a smile.

Harry stands from the table, packing his things, and he shoves his hand into his pocket, feeling the folded edges of the parchment note that he’d penned out three days ago. He tosses his bag across one shoulder and shrugs at the pair of them, his closest friends, his loyalest friends, and wishes that he wasn’t about to tell a _ lie_.

_ (Don’t lie, habibi, _ she begged through tears. _ No more secrets, _ he demanded, face white under his freckles. _ It’s one of the few times that Harry had ever seen them cry. Never again—) _

“I think Ginny's back at the Tower too. Maybe I'll talk Quidditch with her for a bit. My brain is practically ready to melt out of my ears,” Harry says. Ron looks excited by the prospect, but Hermione slams her hand down on his books.

“Not you, Ronald. You need to revise for History of Magic. You had to _ beg _Binns for the extra credit,” Hermione advises. Ron pouts and he salutes Harry.

“You heard the Auror sergeant. I’ll see you later, mate. Keep those diagrams for me?” Ron asks.

Harry nods and makes a note that he really will have to seek out Ginny now to create a plausible excuse for why he’s disappearing. He fingers the piece of parchment in his pocket again and gets ready to leave, until he hears another expectant sigh from Hermione.

“_Yes, _Hermione?” Harry asks with a small smile.

“Have you eaten dinner, Harry?” Hermione asks.

Harry’s smile freezes on his face. “I—”

“Maybe you should go to the kitchens first. You didn’t really eat lunch,” Hermione says. She used to yell and nag him about this. Now, she says it as calmly as she can, like it’s an afterthought. She’s learned what works best.

“Okay. I’ll...I’ll do that,” Harry decides.

“Good on you, mate. Maybe a roast beef sandwich if nothing else,” Ron advises.

Harry nods again and his smile warms just a little. “Okay. A roast beef sandwich if nothing else,” he echoes. He turns on his heel and makes a note to actually go eat that roast beef sandwich even if his stomach feels full of lead.

He looks across the cluster of tables, where at the very edge, by the door, Tom Riddle sits alone. His table is stacked high with books, and Harry knows by just glancing at the names on the spines that Riddle is doing work far beyond school-level. Briefly, Harry wonders _ just _ how smart Riddle really is, because some of it is _ advanced _magic like _ Legilimency_.

Riddle doesn’t look at him as Harry walks by.

Harry shifts, swiftly plucking the letter from his pocket and dropping it by Riddle’s loafer. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s by the exit of the library. Briefly, he looks back, as if he’s looking at Hermione and Ron.

Riddle leans down absent-mindedly, plucks that parchment from the ground, and unfolds it. He doesn’t look back at Harry, but he nods.

Harry thinks about what he wrote down:

_ Entrance Hall. Friday. 8pm. _ ** _Don’t _ ** _ be late. _

He hopes he doesn’t regret this.

_ (Famous last words.) _


	11. FRIDAY, 7:50PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Riddle go on their...appointment.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "We're King and Queen of the weekend  
Ain't a pill that could touch our rush  
(But what will we do when we're sober?)  
When you dream with a fever  
Bet you wish you could touch our rush  
(But what will we do when we're sober?)"
> 
> -Sober, Lorde

“_You _look good.”

Harry jumps _ violently_. He spins around, stares at his godfather who stares back at him, as amused as Harry is frightened. Harry swallows hard and squirms, glancing back in the tall mirror again. He’s wearing a Sirius-approved outfit—his jeans are too tight, and yeah, he’s wearing layers, but a Muggle band that Sirius likes is splashed across the front of his t-shirt.

“Thanks,” Harry mutters. He ruffles his hair. He thinks about brushing it.

And then, he decides against it. Riddle doesn’t deserve that much effort.

“What are _ you _up to? A party?” Sirius asks slyly.

Harry snorts. “_ No_,” he says. He looks up at the man in the doorway, and Remus looks over him, bemused. “I’m really not going to a party, Moony. Promise.”

Moony nods, because Moony _ always _believes him. To a fault, almost.

It used to be a problem; it hasn’t been so much anymore, after Harry started to eat of his own free will.

“Well, you must be going somewhere,” Remus says with a gentle smile. “Do you have permission?”

Harry flushes. He knows Riddle arranged something with Snape to allow their date somewhere that isn’t Hogsmeade. Harry had refused Hogsmeade. It’s _ embarrassing _ that Snape knows that he got special permission for a _ date_.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Harry mutters.

“He’s _ blushing_,” Sirius sings. “Why are you blushing, Ha-rry? Could this be...a _ date? _”

Harry’s face burns red. “No!” he shouts even as Sirius bursts into a round of laughter.

“It is! It’s a date! Who are you going on a date with then, little deer?” Sirius asks.

“Fuck _ off_,” Harry insists.

Sirius sits up, swinging his feet around to slam against the floor. He leans forward, eyes narrowed. “I haven’t heard you talking about any boys.”

“Why would I talk about boys with _ you _ ?” Harry snaps back. He crosses his arms, looking back and forth between Remus and Sirius. “Just...I’m going to a meeting. I have an appointment.”

That’s the only way Harry can justify this. An appointment. A meeting. Cold and clinical and distinct from a date. Because Harry would _ never— _

“How cold,” Sirius teases. “Why are you getting ready for your meeting _ here_, then? Are you _ hiding _?”

Harry sniffs. Sirius is always somehow on the nose about this type of shit.

“I’m not hiding. I just have an appointment,” Harry reiterates.

Sirius huffs out a laugh. “Hmmm...I’ve only heard you talking about _ one _ boy,” Sirius trails off, waggling his eyebrows at Remus. Remus seems to get it only a moment later, his lips twitching into a slow smile. “Could it be that this date...I’m sorry '_appointment'_, is with Riddle?”

Harry’s flush darkens to a dangerously red color. He chokes on his own spit.

Sirius and Remus look at him, _ shocked_.

“I was..._ joking_,” Sirius whispers. He shakes his head, taking a step closer. “Harry, is this the same Riddle that...hurt Lavender?”

Harry closes his eyes and looks away. “Yes,” he mutters.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Remus asks cautiously. He’s always so careful. He’s careful not to accuse, but his tone doesn’t let Harry off the hook either.

“I’m doing it for Lavender!” Harry insists.

Sirius looks at him, skeptically. “Are you really?” he challenges.

“He...he asked me out a couple of weeks ago. I told him no. And then...he apologized to Lavender, and then, I started ignoring him again. Then, he started _ flirted _ with her again, and when I told him to leave her alone _ again _, he said ‘go on a date with me’. So, we’re having a meeting to discuss the terms of him laying off her,” Harry explains.

“Sounds like a date,” Sirius points out. He leans forward, suddenly intrigued. “Do you like him?”

“_ No_,” Harry snaps.

“You dressed up for someone you don’t like?” Remus asks, his own humor catching.

Sirius resists the urge to tease and turns fully to look at Harry, looking far too serious for Harry’s taste.

“Won’t this hurt your friend, Harry?” Sirius asks gently.

Harry glares at the ground. “I’m doing it _ for _her.”

Neither Remus or Sirius look like they believe Harry in the least. Harry doesn’t need them to believe him. He knows what he’s doing.

He _ does_.

So, Harry turns his back on them and bends over to grab his money sack and stuff it into his too-tight jeans pocket, and then his jacket. He looks back and forth between his godfathers who look at each other, having their silent conversation, and then look at him, and then back at each other.

“Ugh, I don’t have time for this. I’m just going to get this over with,” Harry mutters. He looks over at Remus and bites his bottom lip. “If...uh, if Hermione comes around, just tell her I’m sleeping in the back. Or not feeling well?”

“Wait...does no one know?” Sirius asks.

“_No one _ can know. Not even Mione and Ron,” Harry says firmly.

He doesn’t even want to _ imagine _what they’d have to say about this. He turns on his heel and salutes as he heads out of the door.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Sirius calls as his parting shot.

Harry smirks, but doesn’t say anything in response. He leaves Remus’ rooms, and cuts through the strange passageway between his rooms and his study. He exits through the Defence classroom, looking around to see if anyone’s around. He sees no one and skulks towards the Entrance Hall, gaze turned downwards.

He wanders about the bottom of the Grand Staircase, looking around wildly, but it’s an awkward time. No one is out and about. His stomach rumbles; dinner will be much later for him. He’s tried not to wonder what Riddle wants with him or what they’re doing. Harry tells himself that it doesn’t matter, because this is a means to an _ end_. An end of many things, he hopes.

“Harry Potter.”

Harry looks up, wild-eyed, and he tries to school it into something that means he doesn’t care. From Riddle’s smirk, Harry knows he hasn’t succeeded, so he crosses his arms and glares.

“Riddle,” he snarls as Riddle moves away from the stairs up to the dungeons. “Let’s get this over with. Next village over?”

Harry hopes it’s Muggle. No one will care or even think about what might or might not happen in a neighboring Muggle village.

“Ah, no. I got permission for something a little farther from home,” Riddle says. He offers his arm with a flourish, but almost snorts when Harry summarily ignores it. “Let’s go.”

He leads Harry out of the Entrance Hall and into the chilly brisk air of a Scottish November. Harry wishes that he’d worn a cloak or a heavier sweater or jacket. Riddle doesn’t seem to quite notice yet as they walk down the path to the gates. He’s staring straight ahead. Harry looks at him from the corner of his eyes.

Riddle’s dressed almost as stiffly as he usually is, in all black. His suit is, as per usual, Muggle-style, though expensive-looking. He’s too tall, with a too-angular jaw, and his eyes are strangely red, almost unnaturally. He’s too handsome, and Merlin, Harry _ hates _him.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to do this?” Harry drawls.

“Aren’t you a Gryffindor? Where’s your sense of adventure? Your courage?” Riddle mocks.

Or teases.

Harry doesn’t care.

“Firmly not attached to or invested in this event,” Harry deadpans.

Riddle smirks as they approach the gates and he slashes his wand across, going through a series of complicated wand movements before it creaks open.

“Well, Dumbledore has approved this himself.”

“That’s because he plays favorites,” Harry accuses, as if he isn’t one of them. He looks forward and peers into the landscape before him. “What are we going to have? A picnic?”

Riddle’s nose wrinkles. “Absolutely not,” he says. “Take my arm.”

Harry very daintily takes Riddle’s sleeve between two of his fingers. Riddle rolls his eyes and jerks him closer, and then Harry is experiencing once more the unpleasant event of Apparition. He hates it, the world going black, and his body being compressed into a small tiny thing. He can’t breathe, and he’s being made hollow at the center—and he hates it because it feels so familiar and—

When they appear again, Harry stumbles and Riddle has to catch him. His shoulders are shaking and Harry jerks out of Riddle’s hold and stares up into his face. He scowls when he realizes Riddle is snickering.

“You don’t know how to Side-Along?” Riddle asks.

“I _ know _how to Side-Along,” Harry snaps. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks around, eyes narrowing.

For a moment, he’s transported to when he was a child, seeing it for the first time again.

Diagon Alley looks even prettier at night. The cobblestoned road goes crooked as far as the eye can see, splitting into a fork around the enormous glimmering white bank of Gringotts. The glittering, colorful storefronts all sport cauldrons and broomsticks, owls and spellbooks. The wide picture window of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour is filled with a group of children, all licking happily at strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice cream.

Harry’s favorite.

“We could get ice cream after,” Riddle suggests, following Harry’s stare.

Harry spins around and glares at him. “No, it’s fine,” he snaps even as his mouth waters at the thought.

“So _ rude_,” Riddle drawls, tutting under his breath.

“You’re practically _ blackmailing _ me to be here, Riddle,” Harry hisses. “Forgive me if I don’t want to get _ ice cream _with you.”

Riddle never stops looking amused. “The definition of ‘blackmail’ is forcing someone to comply by using threats. All I did was ask you on a date, darling.”

Harry flushes because when Riddle calls him _ that_, his mind always goes hazy for ten seconds.

“I don’t _ want _to be here, you know,” Harry retorts.

“And yet, you’re here,” Riddle says, walking backwards down the Alley. He turns around, eyes caught on the pixies in mason jars strung across the Alley, casting everything in a hazy romantic light.

And Harry hates this boy. He’s annoying and arrogant and a general arse, but he’s also beautiful.

It’s a startling conclusion to come to.

“So, what are we doing?” Harry drawls. “Do you have something planned?”

Riddle smirks. “We have a reservation in about an hour.”

“An _ hour _?” Harry groans. He spins around in a circle, eyes darting around. His gaze catches on Quality Quidditch Supplies. Before he can even move, Riddle grabs him by the back of his collar pulls.

“I’m not going into a _ Quidditch _shop,” Riddle sneers. He looks over at the Quidditch shop like it’s beneath him.

“And you think that we’d be _ good _together,” Harry scoffs, slapping away Riddle’s hand.

“Is ‘us’ contingent on me liking Quidditch?”

“No, it’s contingent on you not being a huge fucking _ dick _.”

They wander down the Alley, and Harry knows Riddle’s looking at him, but he refuses to look back at Riddle. It won’t do anyone any good, let alone Harry. Harry peers around at all of the shops.

His first year into the Alley had been with Hagrid. Hagrid had told him everything that had been kept from him, and then at the end, Harry had been brought into Gringotts, and he’d met Sirius for the first time.

It was one of the happiest days of his life.

His third year had been the first year Sirius and Remus had brought him into the Alley. They hadn’t just gotten full custody of him yet—the Dursleys were ecstatic to be rid of him, but the Ministry’s bureaucracy quickened for no man—but it was coming.

It was one of the worst days of his life.

Harry looks past the glittering white bank, to the crooked storefronts in its shadow, dripping into the dark alleyway, just past it.

Knockturn Alley.

“Have you ever been down there?” Harry asks, looking towards the yawning entrance. Knockturn is always cast in shadow, darkness stretching out, and yet, still cringing from the fairy lights of Diagon Alley.

It’s a place that Harry’s always been curious about, but never gone.

“Knockturn? Once or twice.”

Riddle says it so confidently, Harry’s surprised, even though he shouldn’t be. Riddle’s fascination with Dark magic speaks for itself. Without meaning to, Harry takes a step forward. Moony and Padfoot had never allowed him down there.

“Would you like to go?” Riddle asks slyly.

Harry spins and looks at him, eyes wide with excitement. He swallows when he realizes that he’s caught, and he purses his lips.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry drawls, looking away.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Riddle says.

Harry can _ hear _his smile.

“Ugh, you’re such an arsehole. Let’s _ go_,” Harry snaps and he snatches Riddle’s wrist out of the air, dragging the taller boy after him towards Knockturn Alley. As they approach, Harry can’t help how he shivers with excitement, eyes darting towards the hag that hangs out at the mouth, raising a haggard, long hand.

“Tom _ Riddle_,” she hisses, “it isn’t summertime, just yet.”

“And yet, I’m here, Agatha,” Riddle says. He passes into the shadows without a glance back, pulling Harry along with him.

Harry twists, glancing over his shoulder at the one-eyed hag. She gnashes her teeth at him. Harry smiles back, wide and bright.

“You _ know _her?” Harry asks. He looks down at where their hands are linked now. He yanks back his hand and grits his teeth against the flush in his cheeks. “You’ve been down here more than once or twice, I suppose.”

“Well…” Riddle drawls. He doesn’t make any move to elaborate.

“You think you’re _ so _mysterious,” Harry sighs. “Does that work with your acquaintances?”

“Usually.”

“It won’t with me,” Harry warns. “This is our first and last date, Riddle, you hear me?”

“As you keep _ reminding _me,” Riddle says, flashing Harry another one of those stupidly charming smiles. He brushes his fingers through his wavy black hair, where it’s grown just a little too long around his ears, loose without pomade.

Harry can _ almost _see what Lavender sees in this boy.

_ Almost. _

“I lived here last summer,” Riddle finally says.

Harry’s head turns with a snap, so fast that he almost gives himself whiplash. “You _ what _ ?” he demands. “You’re just a _ kid _.”

“I turned seventeen last year. I was perfectly in my right to live wherever I wanted,” Riddle says loftily. He looks down at Harry, and then back up at the Alley. “I stayed in a flat, and worked in a secondhand shop to pay my rent.”

Harry doesn’t want to admit that he’s impressed, but he’s a _ little _impressed.

The dark winding alleyway is cramped with street vendors, older witches and wizards selling shrunken heads, black wax candles, and human-looking body parts. Instead of being repulsed, Harry’s intrigued. Riddle looks interested in the body parts for some unknown reason, and Harry’s nose wrinkles.

He peels away from Riddle and stops in front of one vendor, an older man who smiles at him with a mouth full of gold teeth, as sparkling as Galleons.

“Can I interest a pretty wizard like you in a false face?” the older man creaks, gesturing wildly to the beautiful face masks mounted on the dirty bricks behind him. Each is more beautiful than the next, handcrafted, painted with metallic colors, bursting with feathers.

“What do they do?” Harry asks. 

“No,” Riddle barks.

The older man seems to startle when he sees Harry’s shadow, and almost immediately, his eyes widen and he cringes violently. “R-Riddle?” he crackles.

“He’s not _ interested _in face-stealing, Mortimer,” Riddle says, his voice going just a little higher, sibilant and jarring.

Harry can see the whites of Mortimer’s eyes.

“Right, right. I’m so sorry, Mr. Riddle,” Mortimer babbles, dipping his head over and over again, almost like he’s bowing.

Before Harry can ask, Riddle grabs his elbow and drags him off. “What was _ that_?” he demands when they’re further down the alley.

“He was going to steal your face, Harry,” Riddle warns.

“What do you _ mean _?”

“He was going to put the mask on you, and steal your face for his own purposes. Whatever that may be,” Riddle says. His gaze flits over Harry’s body, and suddenly Harry feels absolutely naked. “Mortimer _ does _find you pretty, and he has no problem finding whores down here.”

Harry isn’t the brightest of his age, like Hermione, but he can put two and two together. His nose wrinkles. “Ew.”

“Indeed.”

“What shop did you work in?” Harry asks. Riddle almost looks hesitant. “I want to see it!”

“I thought you hated Dark magic,” Riddle says plainly. “They sell Dark artifacts. With a permit, of course.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Know thy enemy, and all that,” he declares. “Show it to me, Riddle.”

Riddle looks amused by his demands and nods anyway. He looks down at Harry, like he’s curious. Harry knows he’s going to ask a question, because Riddle doesn’t give a shit, but he also knows Riddle will take his time, because he’s deliberate.

“You’re awfully interested in Dark magic for someone who abhors the branch of magic altogether. And it’s beyond ‘know thy enemy’,” Riddle swiftly adds before Harry can repeat his excuse from before.

Harry gnaws on his bottom lip as Riddle leads him further down Knockturn Alley, and stares up all the shops and bars that they pass by. He takes notice of the people—people that stare at Tom Riddle in irreverence and awe, two things that scream. He looks back at Riddle.

“Forbidden things…” Harry says, and then he trails off as suddenly, Riddle is looking down at him with that _ look_.

He looks away, and almost walks right past the building that Riddle stops in front of.

Harry looks up.

At Number 13B Knockturn Alley, _ Borgin & Burkes _ looks like a very normal antique shop. It’s something that Harry nearly walked right past. That’s how normal it seems at first glance. But, the longer that Harry stands there, outside of the grimy time-crusted windows, the larger that unsettling feeling grows.

“Borgin and Burkes?” Harry murmurs.

“A shop that specialises in objects with unusual and powerful properties,” Riddle says. He looks down at Harry, his lips twitching. “Would you like to go inside?”

Harry doesn’t wait for Riddle to open the door for him, marching right up and throwing it open for himself. There’s a gong sound instead of a bell, and then an eerie sense of foreboding sits at the roof of Harry’s mouth. He waits.

The shop is dimly lit and dusty, and _ cluttered _ with what Harry could _ feel _were Dark artifacts. ‘A glass case nearby holds a withered hand on a cushion, a blood-stained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stare down from walls, an assortment of humans boys lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hang from the ceiling.’ [1]

And then, a low voice, creaking with spite sounds: “I thought I wouldn’t be seeing _ you _again, Tom.”

Riddle turns in the shop, his lips upturned into a small smile. “Nor I, dear friend.”

A scathing laugh and the sound of someone spitting, and then a man descends from a set of stairs tucked behind a massive cabinet, cracked in half. The man is tall and crooked with a head of slimy black hair—or what’s left of it. He sneers at Riddle, looking him up and down.

“I am _ not _your friend,” he warns.

“Come now, Borgin, I grew your clientele list, the summers I was working for you,” Riddle says as he walks about, peeking at all of the artifacts.

Harry loses himself amongst it all, staring at the withered hand, a tiny card underneath declaring it as the ‘Hand of Glory’. He wonders what kind of glory comes from it.

“And promptly stole it all,” Borgin warns.

Harry looks up sharply, but Riddle refuses to look back at him.

“I’m not here on business,” Riddle says flatly.

“I hope not. I thought I’d have a reprieve of you until the next summer. Or aren’t you graduating yet, boy? Off to bigger, better, _ Lighter _things,” Borgin says, as if to mock him.

Riddle’s eyes flash. “Or perhaps I _ am _ here on business,” Riddle corrects, and Borgin’s nasally laughter comes to an end swiftly. “There’s something that you _ owe _me, Borgin.”

“What?” Harry asks.

Riddle looks down at Harry for a long moment, before he looks back up at Borgin. “Let’s take care of this privately before...Bellatrix has to come and collect my things,” he decides. Borgin sneers and backs away, nodding. Riddle turns back to Harry. “I’ll be thirty seconds _ tops _.”

“What are we _ really _doing here, Riddle?” Harry asks.

Riddle smiles charmingly. “Thirty seconds, I promise, and then, we’ll go to dinner.”

Harry rolls his eyes and waves Riddle away. He turns away as Riddle follows Borgin into the back of the shop, and he inspects the Dark artifacts filling the space.

So, this is where Riddle works in the summer.

It’s not what Harry would expect.

Riddle seems the type to wrangle an internship at the Ministry, in the DMLE or IMC. Instead, he’s a _ shopkeeper_, puttering around in a dusty old secondhand shop on Knockturn Alley. It’s disconcerting, and certainly not _ glamorous _ enough for a guy like Riddle. It makes Harry wonder if there really are hidden depths to someone like Tom Riddle.

Or if he’s _ up to something_.

Borgin _ had _ said something about Riddle _ stealing _his client list.

Harry gets closer to one necklace, in particular, a simple silver chain with a massive, cloudy opal hanging from it. He reaches forward to touch it, and then, a hand reaches out, snapping around his wrist, yanking it back. Harry spins, and looks up at Riddle. In Riddle’s other hand, is a small black velvet bag.

“Why are you always _ touching _things?” Riddle groans.

“Get _ off_,” Harry snarls. “What’s the big deal?”

“There are Dark artifacts here! You shouldn’t just be _ touching _things. That necklace is cursed, you idiot,” Riddle retorts.

“I’m not an _ idiot_!”

Riddle rolls his eyes and takes a step back, releasing Harry’s wrist. “Let’s _ go _.”

“But, I’m not done looking,” Harry complains.

“If you’re not buying anything, get out of my shop,” Borgin growls. He looks more haggard and angrier than he had when they entered the shop.

Harry frowns and stomps out. Riddle follows much more gracefully. He turns in the doorway and smiles winningly at Borgin.

“_Thank you _ for your services, Borgin,” Riddle drawls.

“Don’t come back here, _ boy_,” Borgin snarls back.

Riddle laughs and leaves the shop, letting the door slam behind him. Harry looks up at him.

“Did you bring me here to run errands?” Harry asks, bored.

“No, but your curiosity _ did _allow me to pick up something of mine,” Riddle says. He pulls out a pocketwatch, a rather new looking thing, but a watch that marks him a man, nonetheless. “It’s almost time for dinner. Come now, Harry.”

Harry follows him back down Knockturn Alley, and this time, he pays more attention to how everyone looks at him. Everyone looks at Riddle like they’re afraid, and Riddle seems to feed off of it, his lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. Harry leans in as they walk together.

“What _ else _did you do last summer besides work at Borgins & Burke?” he asks suspiciously.

“A little of this. A little of that,” Riddle says vaguely. When he notices Harry’s unimpressed look, Riddle laughs softly. “I have my hobbies, Harry.”

Harry rolls his eyes and then squints when they enter Diagon Alley again—it’s so much brighter than Knockturn Alley, even at night. The shadows and Dark residue that clung to them on Knockturn washes away, and Harry feels almost normal again, as he follows Riddle down the Alley again, back towards the restaurants. He stops in front of a familiar one, one of the more expensive places.

“Here?” Harry asks, looking up at _ Steamy Hallows_.

“Yeah, here. Come on,” Riddle says. He steps up into the doorway and doesn’t bother holding the door open for Harry. Harry’s not sure if he’d hate Riddle holding the door open for him more than Riddle letting the door practically slam in his face.

He decides Riddle can’t do anything right, so it’s better to just hate Riddle for everything.

“Table for two under Riddle,” Riddle says charmingly to the hostess.

The hostess—a pretty brunette witch—flushes as she looks at Riddle, her eyes widening as she looks him up and down once. Harry can’t _ help _but roll his eyes.

“U-uh, yes, um, right this _ way_,” she says, her voice cracking.

Riddle and Harry follow her to their table, a table tucked slightly out of the way, next to one of the wide windows. Harry sits down and immediately starts looking out the window, preferring to people watch instead of watch this hostess fawn over Riddle.

“You just...um, tap your wand against the meal item you want on the menu. And when you’re done, cross your utensils over the plate, and um, the bill will appear,” the hostess says.

“Thank you, Miss,” Riddle drawls.

She flushes and nods again before scurrying off.

Harry rolls his eyes at the smug look on Riddle’s face. “You think you’re _ so _cool, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” Riddle disagrees. “Do you like the restaurant?”

“I’ve never been,” Harry lies. Riddle looks pleased by that, and Harry scoffs. “What, you think if you take me to a really nice restaurant and show me Knockturn Alley, I’ll forget about how much of an arse you are? Yeah, it’s not gonna happen, Riddle.”

“Right,” Riddle drawls.

Harry huffs. “Just so you _ know_,” he snaps as he flips through the menu for the most expensive item.

He selects the steak and kidney pie, tapping on it with his wand, and shuts the menu, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks across the table. Riddle seems to be considering far more carefully than he did, and it makes Harry wonder.

“For someone who’s never been here before, you knew exactly what you wanted,” Riddle says without looking up from his menu.

“I just picked the most expensive thing,” Harry says with a sneer.

Riddle laughs softly as he selects his own food, and then the menus disappear, replaced with the food in question.

“How can you even afford this?” Harry mutters. “Everyone knows that the Founders’ bloodlines are ancestral. There’s no money or property in that.”

Riddle’s lips twitch into a smile and he leans forward. “Don’t ask about my business unless you really want to know, darling.”

Harry rolls his eyes and resists the urge to throw up the middle finger. He looks down at his meal, kidney and steak pie, and very delicately begins to pick at it. It’s good, he realizes, and he knows that’s all due to the amount of Galleons Riddle dropped on their food.

Harry hasn’t eaten since last night, because he’d been too nervous for this over breakfast, and then, again over lunch he’d been busy. So, he eats ravenously, with little attention paid to table manners. If Hermione was here, she’d chastise him on his abysmal behavior, but it’s only Riddle and anything that makes him want Harry less is a plus in Harry’s book.

But when Harry looks up, Riddle’s smirking at him, amused. He doesn’t look put off at all, as he cuts into his medium-rare steak, so damn prim and proper. He hasn’t eaten a single bite, simply cubing the meat. Harry sneers.

“What?” Harry snarls.

“Why don’t you want to be with me?” Riddle asks.

Harry chokes on his food and swallows painfully. He washes it down with a swig of Butterbeer.

“Are you serious?” he gapes.

Riddle nods once. “I’m rarely not.”

“Oh, no, you’re only not serious about the people that you’re dating,” Harry barks. He laughs, painful and hard.

“I don’t ‘date’. Actually, I’d say you’re the first—”

“Cut the shit, Riddle,” Harry interrupts. “You want to know why I don’t want to be with you? It’s because you’re a _ bad guy _ . You’re not a good _ person_. In fact, I think you’re an _ abysmal _ person.”

“You’re hurting my _ feelings, _” Riddle deadpans.

Harry scoffs. “See. Right there. You’re such an arsehole, and you’re shocked that I don’t want anything to do with you? You even asked me on this date because you know if Lavender finds out, it’ll hurt her.”

“Oh, so she doesn’t know you’re here?” Riddle asks loftily.

Harry’s eyes narrow.

“You _ know _ she doesn’t know, Riddle.”

Riddle hums as he observes Harry, and then, he leans forward and deliberately says, “I asked you on a date because you’re beautiful and talented at Defence and you act like you’re not afraid of me.”

“I’m _ not _afraid of you,” Harry snarls.

Riddle nods and delicately takes a bite of his steak, a perfect cubed centimeter of meat. He hums around it. Harry waits for him to finish. Riddle places his fork down.

“No, you’re not. You’re just afraid of the fact that you want me.”

“Eat _ shit, _you prat.”

Riddle smiles. “You’re not all that nice either, Harry Potter.”

Harry gapes.

“You’re not,” Riddle continues. “You’re on this date with me, aren’t you?”

Harry freezes. “I don’t...I don’t want to be. You keep hitting on me behind her back, and leading her on.”

Riddle leans forward. “Then, a question: why don’t you just tell her that I’ve been hitting on you?”

Harry is suddenly not hungry. And yet, he eats because that’ll give him a longer moment to figure out his answer to a question so fucking _ simple_.

He swallows. “You’re a narcissist.”

“Oh, I’m a narcissist?” Riddle drawls.

“_Yes_. You manipulate people to do what you want, be who you want, all in the promise of them getting closer to you. You even do it to your best friend,” Harry spits.

Riddle’s eyes narrow. “Don’t talk about Bella, Harry. This isn’t about her.”

Harry leans back, surprised. “It’s not? No, I guess not. It’s about _ Lavender_,” Harry growls. “All you care about is yourself and your shitty _ hair _.”

“My _ hair_?” Riddle asks, almost delighted.

“Ugh,” Harry groans.

“Harry, I told Lavender what we were going to be. We weren’t going to be serious. I was very clear about that. It’s not my fault that she got her hopes up. It’s not my fault that she decided to have expectations of me,” Riddle says calmly.

“But, you didn’t have to be so _ mean. _ You said horrible, awful things to her,” Harry snarls. “You _ destroyed _her.”

“If she’s that easy to destroy, maybe she wasn’t so strong in the first place.”

Harry swallows his rage back and gears up to speak again, but Riddle raises a hand.

“And you. You said terrible things to me. In front of my friends. You see, you’re not so nice either, Harry Potter. Just because I can take it doesn’t mean what you said wasn’t awful,” Riddle says. “So, let’s not throw stones at glass houses.”

It’s the Muggle idiom that does it. That truly and fully throws Harry off. Harry stares at him for a long time, opens his mouth, and then closes it again, as he considers what he said.

“I...I guess,” Harry whispers.

Riddle looks smug. “You _ guess _.”

They sit in silence for a moment, simply eating their food, and Harry keeps his gaze on his plate, because the weight of Riddle’s eyes is just too much for him. He doesn’t want to look, he _ can’t _look.

Riddle is right. Riddle is fucking _ right_, and Harry hates it so much.

Riddle was clear. Riddle didn’t do relationships. Lavender thought she could change him, and then, failed miserably at doing so. She got her hopes up, and she got destroyed for it. And then, Harry had done the same thing to Riddle, verbally eviscerating him, in the hopes of humiliating Riddle just as badly as he’d humiliated her.

Harry has to say fucking _ sorry_, because he’s going to be the bigger person.

He’s gonna have to say—

“Goddammit, Bella,” Riddle whispers to himself, his hand pressed to his shoulder. He stands up, suddenly. Harry stops in the middle of his food and looks up at the man.

“Is there a _ problem _?” Harry drawls.

Riddle looks down at him, and for just a moment, Harry sees a glint of regret.

“I have to go,” Riddle says softly. He moves almost to sit down again, but then, his shoulder twitches again, and he shoves his chair in. He crosses his utensils over the unfinished plate, and then, looks down as the receipt pops into existence. He glances at it for just a moment before he throws six too many Galleons on the table. “_ Fuck. _”

Without another word, he grabs Harry by his wrist and yanks him up from the table. Harry’s in shock as Riddle drags him out of the fine restaurant, out onto the uncrowded road that makes up Diagon Alley. Harry pulls out of Riddle’s grasp with a snarl.

“Hey! What the fuck?” Harry demands. “You can’t just _ drag me _around, like I’m a fucking doll.”

“Harry, I really don’t have time for this,” Riddle snaps, just as savage. Harry rears back, eyes widening.

Riddle’s never spoken to him like that. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, suspiciously.

“None of your concern,” Riddle retorts.

“You said ‘Bella’. Do you mean Bellatrix?” Harry asks. “Is something—”

“Enough, Harry,” Riddle sighs.

He pulls Harry close and suddenly, Harry feels like he’s being forced through a tiny funnel the size of a straw. His ears feel like their popping and he’s nowhere and everywhere, and then, suddenly, he’s right side up again. He stumbles, and Riddle catches him to steady him, an amused sound coming from his throat. Harry growls and looks around.

The light pollution from London is gone, and the air feels crisper. Different. Harry looks around and recognizes the Entrance Gates to Hogwarts, more than twice his height, wrought magical iron, and the two winged boars that serve as guards.

“Did you just...you can’t just _ side-Apparate _someone without telling them! What if you had Splinched me?” Harry demands, but Riddle continues to ignore him.

He does a complex motion with his wand, one that Harry attempts to commit to memory, and the gates creak open. Harry supposes that as Head Boy, he’d know the unlocking spell to the gates, just as well as any of the professors.

“Go back to your dorm, Harry,” Riddle commands.

“You’re not the boss of me,” Harry retorts and almost immediately regrets it. He flushes; he sounds like a little _ kid_.

Riddle seems to think the same. His lips twitch and he raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, Harry,” Riddle says. He turns his back on Harry and moves back away from Hogwarts, and that’s when Harry realizes that Riddle isn’t coming back to Hogwarts with him, at least not just yet.

“Hey! Riddle!” Harry calls after him.

Riddle pauses and glances over his shoulder. “What is it?” he asks, impatiently.

“Are we done?” Harry demands. “This...thing. You’re going to leave Lavender alone. We’re _ done_, right?”

And Riddle’s lips curl into a smile, one full of promise, that shivers its way down Harry’s spine.

Softly, he says, “I’ll _ never _ be done with you, Harry Potter.”

A crack of Apparation, and then, Harry is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, J.K. Rowling


	12. SATURDAY, 10:11AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry learns about the events after his...appointment.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I don't know why you try so hard  
To fill the void, you tore a part from me  
You clearly meant it  
You can't embrace it  
You're ever distant  
So what you missing?"
> 
> -No Devotion, TENDER

Harry swallows hard as he sits down at the Gryffindor table and lays his head down against the cool wood. Hermione’s fingers against the nape of his neck soothe him.

“Are you alright, habibi?” Hermione asks.

Harry hums. “Yes. Just..._ exhausted,_” he mumbles.

Hermione nods and she hums soothingly. “Why don’t you eat something?” she suggests, her tone light, but the worry coming through clear.

“I will. Promise,” Harry sighs. He stares down at the wood and closes his eyes, ignoring the weight of Ron and Hermione’s stares. They’re the only ones that know, he tells himself. And maybe Luna. But Luna knows he can take care of himself.

He _ can_. It’s just the wanting to, that’s hard sometimes.

He still feels full from dinner anyway. He’s full in a lot of ways. Knockturn Alley and barbs and Dark magic and a _ boy_—

Harry sits up straight and moves to grab a piece of toast. He sets it down on his plate in front of him, and very methodically butters it. Just as he’s lifting the dry piece of bread to his lips, there’s the sound of heels clattering against the ground, and Lavender Brown whips into the Great Hall, glancing over her shoulder again and again, like she’s being chased.

“You look _ excitable_—” Ron begins.

“Did you hear what happened?” Lavender gasps, slapping her hands on the wood. Harry groans, rubbing at his temple as he looks up from his bread, eyes catching on the curly-haired blonde.

“_Headache_, Lav,” he groans.

Lavender shakes her head in disbelief. “Who _ cares _ about your headache! Did you _ hear _ what happened?” Lavender demands.

Ginny snorts. “No, Lavender. What _ happened_?”

“The Death Eaters got in a fight in Knockturn Alley,” Luna says in the middle of spooning porridge into her mouth.

Lavender’s face falls dramatically and she slips into the seat across from Luna, glaring. Harry slowly straightens at the revelation, and the group look at one another.

“I wanted to tell them,” Lavender whinges.

“Enough, Lav. What happened?” Hermione asks, a little more alert.

“Well, McGonagall can’t prove it, and _ they _ say that they just got wand-happy in their impromptu duelling club meeting, but Hannah Abbott heard from Michael Corner who heard from Astoria _ Greengrass _—” Lavender rattles off, practically vibrating with her excitement.

“The point, Lav?” Ginny asks.

Lavender gasps, catching her breath and she slams her hands on the wood again. “The Death Eaters were in Knockturn Alley for some reason last night, and they got into a _ duel _with a bunch of Dark wizards.”

“Holy shit. Why?” Ron asks through a mouthful of bacon.

“Well, no one _ knows._ But, apparently, Riddle showed up late. He didn’t leave with them. Someone said they saw him leave earlier _ with _someone,” Lavender says. “I think...he was on a date.”

Harry stiffens and slowly lowers his gaze to the grain of the table. He feels the weight of Hermione’s fingers on his nape just a little more.

“Oh?” Ginny asks, her voice cracking just a little.

“Like, who do you think he went on a date with?” Lavender asks, her voice squeaking.

“Who cares?” Ron garbles.

Harry’s lips twitch.

“I cannot _ believe _ that the Head Boy got into a _ duel _ in the middle of Knockturn Alley,” Hermione grumbles.

“I can,” Ron says, adding another of his two Knuts. “That’s very..._ on-brand _for Riddle, isn’t it?”

Hermione looks like she’s gearing up to rant about Riddle, but she looks down the Gryffindor table, her eyes narrowed on the entrance to the Great Hall. A swell of whispers begin.

“Isn’t that Riddle now?” Hermione asks.

Harry spins and his breath catches in his throat as he watches the Great Hall doors part wider. Severus Snape leads the group in, a stern look on his face, but no one pays the Slytherin head of house any mind when the spectacle trails after him.

Riddle stalks in, his face devoid of any emotion or injury unlike the others. Bellatrix spits to the side, her purple lip painted to match the black eye that she walks with, proudly. She sneers and then licks her teeth, before she smiles as the Lestrange brothers limp after her, a fresh scar on Rabastan’s cheek. It’s like they’ve never heard of magic, but it would make sense for the Death Eaters to wear their violence like badges of honor.

Riddle makes eye contact with Harry for only a moment, but it feels like a thousand years until Riddle turns away. He’s untouchable. The Head Boy always is.

“How haven’t they been _ expelled?_” Hermione mutters under her breath. “He’s the Head Boy.”

“And he’s Dumbledore’s favorite. He’s everyone’s favorite,” Lavender reminds them. _ This _makes Harry finally turn away from Riddle, and look at Lavender with a raised eyebrow. “Dumbledore was the one that fetched him from the orphanage.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. “Orphanage?”

Lavender looks surprised that Harry doesn’t know. “Tom is an orphan. _ Everyone _knows that.”

Not Harry. He didn’t.

Hermione’s still ranting about Riddle setting poor examples as Harry tries to reconcile the image of Tom Riddle as an orphan with Tom Riddle the most arrogant motherfucker alive. Harry stares after Riddle as Riddle walks straight up to the teacher’s table, standing in front of Dumbledore. Dumbledore appraises him and says something softly. McGonagall looks grudgingly accepting of his words.

“Well...they’re all 17,” Ginny’s saying, “they don’t have to do anything. And it looks like Dumbledore is fine.”

Dumbledore’s still talking. Riddle nods once and his lips twitch with triumph. He turns around and leads his little group to the Slytherin table. Bellatrix smiles back at him, a vicious spiteful thing, and Riddle leads them over to the Slytherin table. Bellatrix sits down, leaving a seat open for him to sit down in. But, Riddle shakes his head and murmurs something to her. Bellatrix looks disappointed but doesn’t argue with him.

Riddle turns away and makes to leave.

Before Harry even realizes, Lavender stands up, a look of resolve decorating her pretty face.

“_Lavender_—” Hermione starts.

But, Lavender ignores her and meets Riddle near the doorway.

He looks surprised and put out by her. His eyes dart over her head, swiftly, and he meets Harry’s eyes once.

Harry looks down first.

“Are you okay, Tom? I heard about what happened,” Lavender says bravely. Her voice doesn’t even falter once.

Riddle looks surprised by her concern for just a moment, before he creases his face into that blandly charming smile again.

“I’m fine. Thank you...Brown,” Riddle allows, and then he turns on his heel, leaving Lavender in the dust.

He doesn’t look back.

_ (Harry almost wishes he would. _)


	13. MONDAY, 11:03AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Riddle comments on the inevitability of it all
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I need a gangsta  
To love me better  
Than all the others do  
To always forgive me  
Ride or die with me  
That's just what gangsters do"
> 
> -Gangsta, Kehlani

Harry doesn’t mean to call him over after Defence that morning. Harry’s friends are waiting for him to catch up, after he’d made up something about wanting to speak to Moony.

Harry _ shouldn’t _call Riddle over.

They’re done. Harry had made that clear.

And yet, Riddle fucking ditched him, and he was rude about it, and when Harry thought he’d run to help a friend, Harry finds out that he really was _ fighting_.

_ (And maybe Harry feels even worse about what he said, because Tom is an orphan. Tom is like h—) _

“Tommy,” Harry calls as he sees Riddle walking along the corridor towards whatever class he has next.

Harry doesn’t even call particularly loudly, but Riddle spins around on his heel like Harry had shouted in his ear. Riddle lifts an eyebrow and he doesn’t _ smirk _ or sneer.

No, he’s grinning.

And it’s—

“Stop _ grinning_,” Harry snaps, arms crossed over his chest.

Riddle _ doesn’t _stop grinning. Harry glares up at him.

“Is there something you need, Harry P—”

“So, you ditched me on our date for a fight?” Harry asks.

It’s the first thing he can think to ask, now that he finds himself alone in a corridor with Tom Riddle. Riddle leans back against the wall, opposite of Harry, so nonchalant as he regards Harry with a raised eyebrow. It sends a flux of rage through Harry, the type that Harry has to keep in check and swallow or it’ll swallow him first.

“You didn’t want to be on that date with me in the first place,” Riddle drawls. He pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, have you finally realized?”

“Realized _ what_?” Harry snarls.

“That we’re inevitable, darling.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles. He hates how confident Riddle sounds. Merlin, he _ hates _it.

_(He really, really doesn’t._)

“Merlin, you’re such a cocky bastard,” Harry sighed, shaking his head in disgust. “How do your friends stand it?”

Riddle’s lips tilt into a humorless smile. “I’m a cocky bastard who produces results.”

“Why are you talking to Lavender? _ Don’t _talk to Lavender,” Harry warns.

Riddle rolls his eyes as he leans back against the wall, looking Harry up and down like he’s trying to undress Harry with his eyes. Harry suppresses a shiver, feeling practically naked.

“She talked to _ me_,” Riddle corrects.

“She fancies you, Riddle, of course, she’s going to talk to you. Your job is to let her down. _ Gently_,” Harry reminds him, severely. He feels a little like McGonagall in that moment, and it’s rather disconcerting.

“It’s not my fault that she doesn’t realize that I fancy someone else.”

Harry pauses. “What? _ You _ fancy someone?”

Riddle stares at him for a long time like he’s an idiot. This is what Hermione typically refers to as Harry’s emotional stuntedness at work. Harry stares at Riddle as he tries to work it out, and when he does, his heart starts beating in his fucking _ ears. _ He can’t breathe and his chest feels tight, and his stomach is _ caving in _ on itself.

“You don’t fancy me,” Harry breathes softly, because that’s something—that can’t be true, because if it is, he might just—that Harry just doesn’t want to deal with. The possibility of that makes him go crazy with irritation because it _ ruins _things.

“I don’t?” Riddle drawls, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t even know me,” Harry groans, absolutely frustrated.

Riddle reaches for him and grabs his hand out of the air. Harry startles, but doesn’t pull away.

“I know you, Harry Potter.”

Harry frowns, looking down at his feet, lips pressed into a thin line. “Riddle…”

“I’m just being honest, Harry,” Riddle says and he finally drops Harry’s hand. Harry holds his hand against his chest, hoping to stop the pounding, because it feels like he’s having a fucking heart attack. “You should try it. I rarely do, but I must say, this is _ refreshing _.”

“Fuck _ you_!” Harry snarls, and he storms past Riddle, refusing to see the laughter in his eyes.

Neither of them sees the silver hair that whips around the corner either.


	14. TUESDAY, 11:05AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which rumors grow.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Bless your soul, you've got you're head in the clouds  
You made a fool out of you  
And, boy, she's bringing you down  
She made your heart melt  
But you're cold to the core  
Now rumor has it she ain't got your love anymore  
Rumor has it, ooh  
Rumor has it, ooh  
Rumor has it, ooh"
> 
> -Rumor Has It, Adele

“Her?” Lavender starts, eyes darting over the swell of students. And then, she lets her head drop against the arch of the window and shakes her head. “No, she walks a bit funny, don’t you think?”

Hermione gives a cursory glance and then rolls her eyes. “Sure, Lavender,” she drawls.

She’s not even paying attention.

But, Harry is. He’s paying a _ hyper-close _amount of attention.

“No...maybe that dark-haired boy. What’s his name?” Lavender asks, pointing rather conspicuously at a Hufflepuff boy that Harry might vaguely remember as one of Riddle’s old ‘acquaintances’.

“Finch-Fletchley?” Harry suggests.

Hermione’s nose wrinkles. “I thought Finch-Fletchley was straight.”

“I think his thought process was if he was going to try it, it should be with Tom Riddle,” Lavender declares, a silly grin on her face. But, she shakes her head. “No, it can’t be. He’s old news. What about her?” Then, she pauses as she regards Marietta Edgecombe. “No, she’s a bit...dumpy, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s _ rude_,” Hermione snaps, quick and fast.

Lavender looks lost, and surprised more than hurt at the snideness in Hermione’s tone. She blinks owlishly, looking between Hermione and Harry, like she can’t comprehend that they’re not seeing what _ she’s _seeing.

“Well, she _ is_. She isn’t put together and she’s a little...thicker,” Lavender drawls. “If Tom Riddle was going to go on a _ date _ with anyone, they’d be fit. That’s all I’m saying. Some people like bigger bums, and some people like breasts, and in the case of Tom Riddle—who, did you know, he’s pansexual—he likes fit people. Fit, _ pretty _ people. And we both know Marietta Edgecombe isn’t _ pretty _.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Lavender,” Hermione insists, shaking her head. “You can’t..._ reduce _people to their body parts.”

And Harry understands what Hermione’s trying to say, but he can see something in Lavender deflate. Hermione doesn’t get it. Hermione doesn’t realize. Sometimes, it’s easier to think of yourself as all of the parts instead of the sum. Harry gets that. Harry gets it better than most, even though he hates that he does.

“I’m not trying to be _ rude_,” Lavender insists again, her voice so very sweet-sounding. “I’m just saying that if Tom Riddle was going to date someone, _ really _date someone, he’d want to date someone pretty and fit.”

Harry turns away because he knows. He _ knows _Lavender doesn’t see herself as one of those people.

_ Merlin_.

“Lavender, you’re so _ obsessed _with him. It doesn’t matter. You’re better than him anyway,” Harry says, as off-handedly as he can, but he can never quite hide anything from Hermione. She cuts a look at him, and Harry doesn’t look her way. He refuses.

“Harry, you just don’t _ understand_,” Lavender sighs, shaking her head.

Harry leans forward where he straddles the archway, patting her ankle where it sits between his legs. “What don’t I understand?”

“You’re just not interestedin dating. If you were, you’d get why everyone wants to be the person Tom Riddle’s dating.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “How do you know I’m not interested in dating?” he challenges.

Lavender raises a lofty eyebrow, shaking her head.

“Harry, you could have anyone you wanted,” Lavender teases. She leans forward, winking dramatically, her lips twitching into a sweet smile. “Unless there _ is _someone.”

“Alas, no, I’ll die a spinster,” Harry deadpans.

Lavender giggles.

And before Hermione can say anything else, there’s a soft sob from someone just across the courtyard. Lavender, with the nose of a gossip hound, looks up, eyes darting around and finding the Ravenclaw sixth year that let out a sound like that. Isobel MacDougal looks devastated and her Hufflepuff friend, Justin Finch-Fletchley, is comforting her with the look of a friend that knows _ exactly _what she’s going through.

Hermione is still watching Harry, though. Harry feels his anxiety in his throat.

“What’s that about?” he asks.

Everyone’s watching, even the Slytherin girls, led by Daphne Greengrass in Parkinson’s absence. Daphne Greengrass frowns.

Lavender jumps off the ledge, her skirt flapping about her thighs and she puts her hands on her hips. “I’ll find out,” she decides. She marches over, a sympathetic pout already slipping over her face as she approaches the sobbing girl.

Harry watches them and is only disturbed when Hermione reaches up from the grass and yanks on his ear. Harry grunts and slips off the ledge, sitting at the base of the stone wall next to her, looking at her in alarm. Hermione stares at him hard.

“What was _ that _about?” Harry demands.

She looks bewildered, like she can’t figure out if she’s disappointed or excited, or maybe she’s disappointed by the fact that she’s so _ excited_.

“It’s _ you_. _ You _went on a date with him.”

Harry feels his heart drop into his stomach. He sputters.

“W-what? I—”

“Don’t _ lie _ to me, Harry. I _ know _you did,” Hermione insists, bouncing up and down in the slightly damp grass, slick underneath the blanket of her cloak. She leans in, grabbing his arm to drag him closer so she can hiss into his ear. “I looked for you last Friday! I was looking for you everywhere, I even almost went to Professor Lupin’s!”

Harry swallows hard and shakes his head. “Don’t freak out!”

“You’re dating Tom Riddle,” Hermione snarls softly. “And you’re telling me not to freak _ out_? I thought you _ hated _him!”

“I do!” Harry insists. “I went on _ one _date. I did it for Lavender—”

And before Hermione can say anything else, Lavender darts over, her black loafers making her slide across the grass. She collapses on the other side of Harry, her eyes wide in her round face.

“What is it?” Hermione asks, briskly.

“Tom Riddle broke up with them,” Lavender breathes, like she’s come across the holiest of secrets. She looks almost pale.

“ ‘Them’?” Harry drawls uncertainly.

“He broke up with _ all _ of them. I just spoke to MacDougal and she said Riddle broke up with her this morning. And then, Finch-Fletchley said that he broke up with _ all _ of his ‘acquaintances’. The Hufflepuff one last night, and there are _ rumors _ that he hasn’t slept with Bellatrix Black in _ ages _ . He broke up with _ all _of them,” Lavender hisses.

Harry feels numb, and he swallows, staring straight ahead at Isobel MacDougal as she weeps into her friend’s shoulder, like she didn’t know she was going to get dumped by that asshole.

_ (You don’t fancy me. _

_ I don’t?) _

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose as Lavender vibrates with her newfound information.

“Why would he break _ up _with all of them?” Even Hermione can’t help but be sucked into the drama of it all.

Lavender shakes her head in wonder. “Do you...do you think this has to do with his date?”

Before either can respond, there’s the ding of the bell and the other students begin to move, making their way to class. Lavender groans and hops up, snatching her bag from the ledge. She looks down at both Hermione and Harry with a meaningful glint to her eyes.

“I have Divination. Find some information for me?” she asks, with a wink, and then, she’s off, probably to divine the information from some hack crystal ball.

Harry and Hermione watch her. They watch her as she lopes off through the slick grass and ducks through an archway and up the hall. Harry and Hermione remain, and then, Hermione turns to look at him, shaken. It’s different than when she’d just called him out. Now, she looks thoughtful, like she’s realizing something, and she’s not sure if she likes it yet.

“I thought you said it was one date,” Hermione breathes, wide-eyed.

Harry stares at her for just another second before he buries his face in his hands, shaking his head.

“It _ was_,” he groans because he can’t look at her.

Hermione looks crossed between appalled, impressed, and amused. She leans forward, wraps her fingers around his wrists. Hermione’s serious then; she only insists on them making eye contact when she’s _ serious_.

“Then, why did he break up with his ‘acquaintances’?” Hermione whispers gently.

Harry swallows as he looks into her brown eyes. Hermione’s eyes have always compelled him to tell the truth. It’s how Ron and her found out about his home life. It’s how Ron and her found out about his sexuality. It’s how Ron and her find out everything. He can’t resist.

“He says...he claims that he fancies me,” Harry whispers.

He expects Hermione to condemn him, to berate him, to do anything but what she _ does_.

She practically shrieks, leaning forward, wide-eyed.

“He _ fancies _ you?” she demands. “Wallah, Harry, _ Tom Riddle_?”

“I don’t fancy him back!” Harry protests, his voice going higher in panic.

Hermione shakes her head in disbelief. “_Wallah_.”

“I _ know_.”

“Why would you...you _ know _ how Lavender feels about him!” Hermione whispers. Harry just feels even worse as she finally voices it out loud, what’s hung between them since the moment she acknowledged that it was _ him _ . “She _ likes _him so, so much, Harry. If she found out—”

“She won’t,” Harry insists. “I went on a date with him _ for _her.”

Hermione stares at him blankly. “Make it make sense, habibi.”

“Because he...he only apologized because I called him his arse, and, honestly, he was going to keep flirting with Lavender, and when I told him to stop, he said ‘go on a date with me’, and so…” Harry trails off, because saying it out loud only makes it seem more underhanded and worse, and he feels _ just like Riddle _

Hermione stares at him like he’s an idiot.

“So...you’re dating him...to stop him from dating Lavender?” Hermione asks. She sounds disbelieving.

“He was never going to date Lavender. And I went on _ one _ date. A singular date. That will never be repeated _ ever _again,” Harry insists, emphasizing each word.

Hermione purses her lips as she looks at him. “Well...you’re going to have to tell her.”

“What? _ Why_?”

“You can’t keep something like this away from her. If she finds out, she’ll be so hurt,” Hermione insists.

Harry’s eyes narrow. “You hurt her feelings on a daily basis.”

If Hermione was a single shade lighter, Harry thinks she might be blushing. She looks almost _ embarrassed_, which is certainly uncharacteristic of Hermione, who is so strong in her convictions. Hermione leans forward.

“What did you do?” Hermione asks. “On your date.”

Harry fights the urge to blush. “Ugh...does it matter?”

“_Yes_. You went to Diagon Alley, for this, right?” Hermione asks.

Harry nods. “We...walked around the Alley,” he allows. He wants to tell her about Knockturn Alley, and the things he heard, but for some reason, he hesitates. He doesn’t want her to know. He wants to keep that for himself. “And then, he took me to dinner at some fancy café. And we argued. He tried to be charming, and I called him an arse, and he...he said that I wasn’t as nice as I pretend that I am.”

Hermione leans back.

“I didn’t know you pretended to be nice,” she teases.

Harry groans. “Be _ serious_, Mione.”

Hermione fights her grin and nods. “Okay, okay, I’m ‘serious’, Harry.”

“He...brought up when I verbally attacked him. That I was doing the same thing that he’d done to Lavender—”

“You were protecting a friend!” Hermione protests.

Harry nods. “But I’m supposed to be the bigger person. And...he was _ clear _with her. About what they were. She pushed it—”

Hermione sighs and Harry swallows the rest of his words, looking at her for a long time.

“Are you _ sure _ you don’t like him, Harry?” Hermione asks, her voice a little softer. Kinder.

Harry frowns. “No. I _ don’t _like him,” he says, voice hard enough that it makes Hermione’s eyebrows travel up her forehead.

“Harry—”

“I _ don’t_,” Harry insists.

Hermione purses her lips for a long time. And then, she sighs. “Okay. Come on. Let’s go to the library. I need a few books for Ancient Runes.”


	15. WEDNESDAY, 4:04PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they're just young dumb broke high school kids lol.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "While we're young dumb  
Young, young dumb and broke  
Young dumb  
Young, young dumb and broke  
Young dumb  
Young dumb  
Young, young dumb and broke  
Young dumb broke high school kids"
> 
> -Young Dumb & Broke, Khalid

“Ugh! I love this place!” Ginny crows as she runs and dives into the massive pile of pillows that always sit at the center of the Room of Requirement

Harry grins as he watches her snuggle deeper into the pile, rolling about it with an abandon that Harry is still getting used to. Ginny Weasley, when she is wholly herself, is a spectacle. Witty and intelligent, and daringly brave. She smiles easier and lifts her chin like she’s always aching for a fight, ready to deliver.

Harry thinks that if he were into women, he might fall in love with her.

“It’s my favorite place,” Harry agrees.

Luna doesn’t lack any enthusiasm, but she swans through the room, looking around, completely bypassing the pile of pillows. Harry leans against the wall and watches her as she dances along the edges, catching glimpses of herself, spinning like a top, in the mirror. She tilts back her head and laughs, like she’s testing echo-capacity. She seems delighted when the cavernous ceilings laugh back at her.

“I think it might be my favorite place one day too,” Luna agrees.

Harry smiles as Luna settles in and sits at the piano, flipping open the top and staring down at the ivories like they’re curious creatures to be evaluated. Harry’s fingers twitch with the urge, but he tamps it down; he doesn’t play here, at Hogwarts. It’s for the summers, when he’s feeling bored and listless, and isn’t _ totally _reminded of his third year, the year he’d learned to play as a way to cope.

“We should do this more often,” Ginny says.

“Do what?” Harry asks as he joins her in the pillow pile, sitting down cross-legged.

“Do things in smaller groups. Sometimes, the big group gets…” Ginny says, and she waves her hand, searching for the right word.

“Overwhelming?” Harry suggests.

“_Exactly_,” Ginny agrees with a fierce nod. “Sometimes, I just want to be…”

“Whelmed?” Luna suggests.

Ginny looks between the pair of them, shaking her head, and Harry grins.

“I’m in awe,” Ginny sighs, and Harry laughs, shaking his head. Ginny leans back on her hands as she looks between Luna and Harry. “Anyway, tell me when it’s almost time for dinner. I’m getting dinner with Dean tonight.”

Harry tries to raise a single eyebrow, but that’s always been more of Hermione’s strong suit.

“You’re doing _ what_?” he asks.

“It’s casual. We’re doing the whole _ friends _thing,” Ginny says, waving her hand away.

Luna hums. “Is that smart?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ginny challenges.

“What about Zabini?” Harry asks next, and this time, Ginny looks a little more awkward instead of relaxed like she does when she talks about Dean.

“He’s...well, he asked me out, at that last party. And I told him to rain check. But, now, I want him to ask me out again, but he hasn’t,” Ginny mutters.

“I mean, you _ could _ ask _ him _ out,” Harry drawls. He leans back in his pillows. “You see, that’s the thing about this shit. Guys are _ always _expected to ask out the girl, and that’s a lot of pressure on guys too. It’s a different kind of pressure, but it’s there.”

Ginny flushes. “But...won’t it make me sound desperate?”

“He likes you, doesn’t he?” Luna asks. “I don’t think it really matters.”

She begins to pluck at the keys. None of them sound even a smidge out of tune.

“I see him in the halls, and we talk a little. But…” Ginny trails off and shakes her head. She pastes a smile on her face, and it feels real, if a little forced.

If Harry was Hermione, he’d push a little more, but he’s never been like Hermione, so he won’t.

He’s saved from having to give any more ill-advised advice when Luna speaks up.

“Harry, if this is your happy place, why is there always a piano?” Luna asks.

Ginny looks grateful that the attention is no longer on her. She sits up, curious, staring over at Harry. Harry looks away, his lips pursed.

“I used to play piano,” he allows slowly. “It was part of my…”

_ Therapy_, is what it was a part of. He isn’t sure if he’ll say it. He’s never _ acknowledged _the fact that he saw a Mind Healer every day for a year and a half, that he still sees Miriam now, when he needs to. He thinks Ron and Hermione know, because of the prescriptions and the Calming Draught, but he isn’t sure if he’s ever said it out loud or if they’d just filled in the blanks for him.

“Will you play something now?” Luna asks.

Harry’s head speeds through the number of pieces he can play, and he hears the flickering of parchment flipping over and over again. He looks over at the piano where Luna sits, her hair billowing back gently as the Room’s magic works, flipping through sheet music. And then, when Harry shakes his head, the sheet music disappears altogether.

“I can teach you something,” Harry says instead. He grunts when he stands to his feet and goes to join Luna at the piano, and Ginny dogs his steps, eager to witness it.

Harry grabs Luna’s hand and squeezes as he begins to guide her through the motions of Chopsticks. He takes two of her fingers, pressing them, and Luna makes a soft sound of delight as he shows her the simplest of piano pieces. If he can even really call it a piece. He doesn’t think he can. It’s really nonsense notes, but he still plays it sometimes.

It was the first thing Remus ever taught him on the piano, before he’d gotten good enough that he needed a teacher. A real one.

“Why don’t you ever play?” Ginny asks. “You know how to play, don’t you? It shows up in your happy place.”

“Yes. I just...don’t play very often anymore,” Harry says with a shrug. “Keeping up with piano takes a lot of practice, and I don’t have much time now, studying for NEWTs, and with Quidditch practice.”

“But the season is going on break until March after Saturday’s game,” Ginny suggests to the sounds of Luna picking up the rhythm. She leans in.

Harry looks at the ivory keys and thinks of playing again, and then, he shakes his head.

“I’ll find _ something _ to preoccupy myself,” he insists. “You _ all _are a handful anyway.”

“Maybe you’ll use Tom Riddle,” Luna says absent-mindedly.

Harry chokes on his own spit.

“What do you mean Riddle?” Ginny asks. She looks over at Harry through shrewd eyes, like she’s trying to figure him out just by staring at him. “What’s this about Riddle, Harry?”

“I saw Harry and Riddle meeting in the corridor the other day. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but Harry looked _ pretty _ mad,” Luna says. Her lips twitch as she finishes her third round of Chopsticks. “Harry shouted ‘fuck you’ and stomped off. Riddle was _ smiling.”_

“He was _ smiling_?” Ginny says, her voice going an octave higher and cracking. She slides closer to Luna, crushing the poor girl between Ginny and Harry. She leans over Luna’s hands and Luna cranes her head to keep her eyes on the keys. “Harry, I _ remember_, he asked you out. Remember, I _ saw.”_

“He asked you out?” Luna asks. “Was he asking you out again?”

“Did you _ go _out?” Ginny asks.

“Clearly _ not_,” Harry says, and he’s never been a _ great _ liar, but if he doesn’t make eye contact with either one of them, he thinks he can pull this off. “Tom Riddle is the most arrogant arse alive. And he hurt Lavender’s feelings. I would _ never _go out with him.”

“Don’t say never,” Luna says sharply.

It’s sharp enough that both Harry and Ginny turn to look at her.

Luna turns to look at Harry, her eyes surprisingly piercing and focused.

“What?” Harry whispers.

“Don’t say ‘never’, Harry,” Luna warns. “You wouldn’t want to be a liar.”

It sounds like she’s telling him, _ You’re a liar, Harry. _

And Harry knows that _ he must not tell lies. _


	16. THURSDAY, 2:19PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Hermione commune.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Oh but please  
Please wake me  
For my love lies patiently  
Please baby please  
And my love life waits for me"
> 
> -oh baby, LCD Soundsystem

Sometimes, Harry likes to be with Hermione alone.

It’s never against Ron or anyone else in the Ginny Weasley Defence Squad, but it’s been like this since Harry was a first year. Sometimes, it’d become too much, and in their younger years, Ron wouldn’t always get it. Hermione would see almost immediately, and she’d take him by the hand and drag him off.

They’d become closer his third year, Hermione and Harry. Harry’s third year had been—

_ It doesn’t matter, _ Harry thinks. _ It’s in the past_.

So, he focuses his attention on his friend as he watches her scribble hurried notes that don’t look like they have anything to do with Ancient Runes _ or _ Arithmancy. Honestly, Harry thinks she’s a little mad for taking on such a heavy courseload, because it means she’ll have _ so _many NEWTs to take, but Hermione Granger is the brightest witch of her age.

He has no doubts that she’ll graduate with the highest marks.

But, that’s not what she’s focused on, and it’s rather surprising.

If he thinks about it, she hasn’t been focused all week. She’d been intrigued by _ gossip_. That is characteristically unlike Hermione.

Harry congratulates himself for being so observant.

“Are you...alright, Hermione?” Harry asks.

Hermione looks up, frenzied, her dark eyes flashing. She slams her book shut, and Harry winces when reads the cover—_ A History of Servitude: The Complex Relationship between House-Elves and the Wizards & Witches They Serve_.

_ Fuck. _

“I am _ not _ alright,” Hermione hisses. “I’m doing research right now so that I can bolster SPEW’s outreach. Luna is a little... _ Luna_, but she made a good point about reaching out to house-elves. And I’ve done that, and they weren’t receptive, and I wasn’t sure why, but I think they’re avoiding me, so I decided to read.”

Harry doesn’t think she took a single breath through her rushed words. He tries to parse meaning out of the slurred speech, and nods, eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times over. He leans forward, curious, to look at her notes, but he can’t make much sense out of it, and at a certain point, she started writing in Arabic, except for the words that she doesn’t know Arabic for, like ‘house-elves’ and ‘menial’.

“Oh. That’s...a lot,” Harry drawls. “Uh...well, Dobby will speak to you?”

“I’ve already spoken to Dobby. Numerous times, Harry,” Hermione deadpans. She sighs, letting her forehead drop to the table as she stares at her notes, looking far too crushed for Harry’s tastes. “Maybe house-elves really don’t want to be freed?”

“I think...that things have been the way they are for a _ very _long time. Maybe you should focus on something else until you become struck with new inspiration?” Harry suggests.

Hermione taps her quill against the parchment and nods. “It’s just...you know why this is so important to me, Harry,” she sighs.

Harry does know. Hermione’s told him a number of times. The others don’t understand. They weren’t raised in the Muggle world, so they don’t _ know _anything about it. About what the British Empire did, once upon a time. What it continues to do.

Harry doesn’t know much, either, but he was the only one willing to learn.

“Until you come up with something that empowers elves rather than empowering yourself, what else are you interested in?” Harry asks. He knows Hermione well enough to know that though she fixates, there is a breadth of causes that she takes seriously.

Hermione hums, her brow furrowing as she considers it. And then, she brightens, looking over at Harry.

“Do you think Professor Lupin would be amenable to talking with me about werewolf relief efforts?” Hermione asks.

At this, Harry perks up, actually _ interested _in werewolf relief.

“I think he would,” Harry says. He pauses as he looks at Hermione, lips pursed. “Would you...would you want to read my mother’s journals?”

Hermione sits up, ramrod straight, staring at him with wide eyes.

Harry knows that Hermione thinks of his mother like a goddess, a pioneer for the rights of marginalized groups in the magical community. There are a lot of people that think the same of her, and Harry has gotten his fair share of letters requesting her work and her materials, all looked over first by Remus and Sirius, but he’s never offered her journals to anyone.

He’s never trusted anyone with pieces of his parents.

He’d trust Hermione.

“Oh, Harry...I couldn’t,” Hermione breathes. And it sounds so hard for her to say, when all she clearly wants to say is '_yes_, thank you', but she doesn’t. She knows what it means that he would offer it.

And _ that’s _why he trusts her.

“Oh, Hermione, you _ can_,” Harry grins. He shrugs. “I wouldn’t give you all of them. Just her stuff on werewolf rights. She worked on a lot of it with Remus, anyway, but this is important to me. I almost wasn’t adopted because of discrimination against werewolves.”

Hermione’s gaze softens. “Oh, I know, Harry.”

Harry isn’t sure if he’s the one to carry on his mother’s mission. He doesn’t think he’d be any good at it. He hates interviews, and he hates public speaking, and he doesn’t really have a mind for the politics that are surely involved. He’s probably too brash, always the first to snap in defence of his friends, and it reminds him of terrible things.

But, Hermione.

Hermione would be good at it.

When she grows into herself a little.

“Yeah. You should come by during dinner tomorrow night. I’ll owl Sirius now and ask him to stop by the vault on his way over. He’ll bring her books and you can talk to Remus,” Harry says with a smile.

Hermione leans over, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s cheek that makes him turn red.

“Thanks, habibi,” she murmurs.

“Anytime, Mione.”


	17. SATURDAY, 4:03PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry wins. in which Harry _wants_.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Do you think I'm stupid?  
Do you think I'm bat-shit crazy, havin' you on my mind?  
Do you think I'm helpless?  
My algebra gon' equal you every time  
Do you think I'm callin'?  
Do you think I'm callin' out your name every night?  
Girl, I have fallen for you"
> 
> -Genius, LSD

“LOOK AT THAT! DID YOU SEE THAT?” Ron roars as he thunders through the locker room. “THE MOVES! THE SKILL! THE TEAMWORK! WE’RE GOING TO WIN THE CUP THIS YEAR!”

There’s a roar of approval, of agreement, as Ron jumps down from the bench, sticking his fist in the air. The rest of the Quidditch team screams even louder as Ron postures, parading around the room, slapping high fives with the Beaters and the three Chasers, the girls lingering in the doorway on their way to their own locker room. Ginny is just as enthusiastic as her brother, screaming herself hoarse, and Harry doesn’t even have the heart to tell them to shut up, because his own heart is thundering in his chest with their victory, and Ron’s not wrong.

They’d played bloody brilliantly.

They were a well-oiled machine at this point, weaving in and out of the air like a single organism. Katie and Robins were excellent, especially after Robins had come out of her shell, and Harry is a man enough to admit that Ginny Weasley is probably the best flyer that’s ever come out of Hogwarts besides Gwenog Jones, and he’s including himself in that factor.

He knows that _ Ginny _is going to be one of the best Quidditch players of all time.

“That _ was _ something else,” Hermione says from where she’s next to Harry, by the door, ready to slip out at any time. And then, Hermione looks over at Luna—Luna who is still in her lion headdress, which is a rather biased non-statement since she’s the _ commentator _ —and smiles. “And your commentating was... _ something_, Luna.”

Harry grins. He’d nearly fallen off his broom at Luna’s commentary.

“Thank you, Hermione!” Luna beams.

Harry snorts.

“It was a good game to end on until March,” Harry agrees. He looks over at everyone, brimming with pride. When he steps forward, the roars nearly fall silent as their captain turns to address them. “It was a good game!”

“A great one!” Robins roars, and _ yes, _she’s out of her shell.

The rest of the team cheers their agreement.

“A great game,” Harry corrects himself. “It was a great game to end on until the season picks up again. But, it’s important that we keep this sharp. The other teams _ won’t _forget, and we can’t come back in March slacking after a game like this. We won’t be practicing as hard, but we’ll need to keep sharp, mind you.”

Everyone groans, but nods their agreement, and Harry grins, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Can’t you just be proud, Harry?” Ginny sighs, though she doesn’t sound particularly put out, as she’s smothering her laughter in the crease of her arm.

“Alright, alright. Just, go on, and get ready. I’m sure there’s going to be a _ rager _in the Common Room, waiting to celebrate us,” Harry dismisses.

The rest of the team cheers and the girls slip out, giving the guys some privacy. Ron comes over, clapping Harry on the shoulder. Harry looks up at him, grinning.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Captain,” Ron teases.

“Oh, shut it, Ron,” Harry snorts, shaking his head.

“He’s not wrong, Harry,” Ritchie Coote, one of the Beaters, says. “Would you play professionally?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know about all of that.”

“If you don’t, it’d be a travesty,” Jimmy Peakes agrees, shaking his head. “At _ least _ a coach, Harry. Your plays are incredible.”

“Well, I don’t come up with them all by myself,” Harry insists, bashfully, rubbing at the back of his neck. He doesn’t change yet, clutching his Firebolt to his chest. He likes to be alone in the locker room when he changes, because he doesn’t want people to see.

_ (Sometimes, he forgets that he can’t count his ribs through his skin anymore. Sometimes, he imagines that he still can. He doesn’t want them to see—) _

“You’re too modest, Harry, honestly,” Ron sighs. He unabashedly strips down to his pants, his pale freckled body on display except for where his face in tanned by the unforgiving sun. Despite it being November, it’s rather warm, up in the sky.

“Whatever,” Harry mutters as he straddles one of the benches.

He’s never given much thought of what he wants to be after Hogwarts. He can’t really imagine a time after Hogwarts. He doesn’t want to just sit around spending money like Sirius, but he might like to travel a bit. And he also thinks Remus’ job as a Defence teacher is cool. Remus always says that he can’t wait until next year when Harry serves as the TA; Remus thinks he’ll be ready to take his NEWT early, even, with the rest of the seventh years.

Harry still isn’t sure if he _ wants _to be a TA, but that’s because he’s not sure if he’s a good teacher.

“I bet we’ll be partying past midnight,” Coote says to Peakes.

Harry smiles because they’re young; they’ve never really gone to parties before. This will be one of their first.

“You bet your arses. Gryffindors know how to party, _ especially _after victories,” Ron beams. He pulls his sweater over his head, marked with a massive ‘R’, and Harry just wants to wrap himself up in a blanket and wear his own and maybe go to sleep, but he’s the Captain. “Even Hermione has fun at the Common Room parties.”

“Hermione has fun at most parties,” Harry reminds Ron.

Ron rolls his eyes, waving Harry away; he prefers to think of Hermione as the forever stick in the dragon dung, even though that’s not _ really _who she is. Not anymore.

“You two ever tried Firewhiskey?” Ron asks with a sparkle in his eye. He guides Peakes and Coote out, glancing over his shoulder and nodding at Harry.

“Don’t get them too drunk, Ron. They’re fourth years!” Harry insists.

Peakes grins. “I’m actually a third year.”

“Merlin,” Harry groans, shaking his head and smiling as Ron leads the Beaters out, leaving Harry utterly alone.

Harry turns to look in his cupboard, sighing as he presses his forehead against the wood, still clutching his Firebolt to his chest.

It was a good game. A blowout against Ravenclaw.

Cho Chang was a good Seeker, but Harry was better, and the Ravenclaw Keeper wasn’t nearly as daring as Ron, who was willing to practically throw himself from his broom to save a goal. And maybe Harry had been nearly clipped by a Bludger, but that just meant that he was paying extra close attention to the Ravenclaw Beaters, because he wanted Coote and Peakes to be that aggressive.

“Well _ done, _Captain.”

It’s a voice that doesn’t belong, so out of place in the locker room that Harry startles violently, and almost drops his broom.

He slowly turns and stares at the doorway where Tom Riddle, Head Boy, leans against the doorframe. He looks Harry up and down and very carefully bites down on his bottom lip, like he likes what he sees.

Harry’s mouth goes dry.

“T—Riddle,” Harry whispers, catching himself. The name strangles in his throat. He watches Riddle, pressing himself harder into the cupboard behind him, feeling the knob dig into the small of his back. Riddle hovers in the doorway for just a moment before he waves his wand, and a hush descends on the locker room.

Riddle doesn’t say anything as he slips farther into the locker room. Harry presses himself tighter into the cupboard, but there’s nowhere else for him to go as Riddle weaves through the room, looking about the space with a detached curiosity. It strikes Harry that Riddle has probably never been in the Quidditch locker room.

“Is there something—” Harry starts.

“You played a very fine game,” Riddle finally says.

“Thanks, I know,” Harry says. He’s finally admitting it, but only out of spite at this fucking arsehole, who is _ infringing _on Harry’s post-Quidditch game routine. “Didn’t you know? The locker room is for players only.”

Riddle raises an eyebrow. “I’m a genius with an eidetic memory and the Head Boy, Harry. I have the rules of Hogwarts memorized, and I’m quite sure that’s not one of them.”

“Fuck _ off_, Riddle. Do you need anything?” Harry barks.

Riddle takes a step closer, staring at Harry with his wide burgundy eyes and his wide mouth, and _ fuck, _Harry wants to punch him in his smug face.

“You’re so eager to send me away, Harry. You always hurt my _ feelings _.”

“Didn’t know you had emotions to hurt,” Harry barks. He takes a step back, until he realizes that he’s already boxed in against the wood of his cupboard.

“I think I’m starting to get you, Harry,” Riddle sighs.

Harry scoffs. “I _ seriously _doubt it, Riddle.”

“You get mean when you feel threatened. You’re threatened by me,” Riddle says, and there’s always that hint of teasing on his face that Harry hates because, it feels so _ fake_, or at least, strangely ill-fitting on Riddle’s face, in Riddle’s voice.

“You don’t scare me,” Harry reminds him.

And then, Riddle is right there, right in front of Harry, and Harry tilts his head up to look in Riddle’s face, his chin jutting out arrogantly.

“I never said you did,” Riddle says. “I know you’re not afraid of me.”

“Then, what _ are _ you saying? Why are you even _ here? _” Harry snaps. “I thought you didn’t like Quidditch.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Riddle says, his nose wrinkling at the fact that he’d just sat through two hours of a Quidditch game. “But, I had to see you in action. I’m even late to my duelling practice.”

“You practice on Saturdays now?” Harry asks.

“Oh, so you know my schedule?” Riddle asks. “Sounds like you—”

Harry sneers and looks away. “Fuck off. Go _ away _.”

“You like me, Harry Potter,” Riddle murmurs with a teasing lilt in his voice, his hand pressed into the wood next to Harry’s ear. He’s looming, and Harry has always hated people that loom. Riddle _ looms_.

Harry hates Riddle’s mouth, just too thin to be called generous, but lips dark pink. He hates the way his tongue curls around Harry’s name, like he owns it, like it’s his alone to be spoken aloud. 

“I don’t like you,” Harry whispers.

He can feel Riddle’s smile against his skin. “_Liar_.”

And then, he’s gone, taking two steps back. Harry shivers against the cupboard and tries to breathe. He finds that he can’t; each breath lodges high in his throat, forming a lump. Riddle smiles wider and leaves with a swirl of his cloak.

Harry slides down the cupboard and presses the heel of his palm to his crotch, half-hard in his Quidditch leathers.


	18. TUESDAY, 5:32PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Tom likes to duel, and Harry, generously, obliges.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I'm bigger than my body  
I'm colder than this home  
I'm meaner than my demons  
I'm bigger than these bones  
And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me"  
I can't help this awful energy  
God damn right, you should be scared of me  
Who is in control?"
> 
> Control, Halsey

Harry takes a deep breath.

This is a good idea, he tells himself.

He’s been telling himself that since he’d made the decision last night.

“Is this a good idea?” Hermione asks.

“_Yes_,” Harry snaps, probably harsher than he really needs to. Hermione glares at him, but Harry’s too on edge to apologize. Instead, he stares even harder at the door, attempting to will it open with his mind.

“You just reach forward and turn the—” Ron starts.

“Yes, I got it, Ron, thanks,” Harry retorts just as fast.

He rolls back his shoulders, cracking his neck hard, and then he throws the door open with a bang, hard enough to startle the Death Eaters just on the other side of the door, but not enough to disturb Riddle and Bellatrix as they duel on the platform.

Bellatrix is holding her own remarkably well, but Riddle is, as always, the stronger, smarter duellist.

He throws a hex at her—one that Harry recognizes by the viscosity of the purple—and Bellatrix isn’t quite fast enough.

Harry _ is_.

“_Protego Maxima_,” he barks, and the shield is so strong that it’s practically visible, casting the area around Bellatrix in this strange hazy shade. Bellatrix looks up, alarmed, but Harry doesn’t let her become a distraction. Instead, he flings himself at Riddle and snarls, “_Expelliarmus_.”

Riddle’s wrist jerks but he keeps ahold of his wand. He spins and fires another wandless spell that Harry throws himself away from, rolling to a stop. He jumps up onto the duelling platform, in front of Bellatrix and falls into a duelling stance.

Riddle smirks.

Then, they’re moving at breakneck pace, volleying spells at one another with little regard for the people around them. From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Hermione dodge a hex that lingers more on the Darker side, and it just pushes him harder.

“_Morbilicorpus!_” he shouts, and Riddle snorts like Harry’s spell is too _ small _ for him. _ Fine. _ “_Diffindo!_”

Riddle’s face snaps to the side and he looks back at Harry, shocked, a thin line of red across his jaw. Harry sneers.

“_Fulmencio_,” Riddle hisses, sending a crackling wave of lightning straight at Harry’s head. Harry ducks, and then swiftly has to roll out of the way of a Suffocating Curse, one that judging from the light and swiftness was exceptionally powerful. Harry jumps to his feet, pointing his wand.

“Are you trying to fucking _ kill _me?” Harry demands.

Riddle scoffs. “You just tried to kill _ me_. Just a few centimeters down and you would’ve slit my jugular.”

“Girls, you’re both pretty,” Rodolphus drawls from where he’s perched atop one of the desks, a slightly interested look in his eyes. Rabastan snorts, but Bellatrix simply sneers, glaring at him with a look that reminds Harry uncomfortably of one of Hermione’s glares.

“Such _ casual _sexism,” Bellatrix says, her voice dripping with disdain. Rodolphus winces, but Bellatrix barely pays him any mind, her cutting gaze stuck on Harry. “You interrupted our duel.”

“You were losing,” Harry says. “You were about to be hexed into oblivion.”

“I didn’t need your _ help,_” Bellatrix barks. “This is a closed practice.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m here. You would’ve been cursed with Dark magic,” Harry volleys back.

Riddle scoffs. “What of it? I have a license to use Dark magic, Harry,” Riddle says. He ignores the sharp look Bellatrix throws him, and it takes Harry a moment to realize that it’s because Riddle is using his given name like they’re _ familiar_.

“Why would you need that?” Hermione asks. She doesn’t seem as horrified as Harry, more intrigued by the concept. “You have to be of age—”

“I _ am _ of age,” Riddle sighs, like he’s already tired of the conversation. “I have the license because Viktor Krum of _ Durmstrang _has a license. Since we’re duelling Durmstrang in a few months, one of us has to transcend our disadvantage. So, she gets hexed.”

“That’s a regular occurrence in this club. If you’re duelling Tom, you get hexed. Or cursed,” Rosier explains. He’s slighter than his other male compatriots, pale and willowy and rather pretty. He brushes back ashy blonde hair from his face. “Except, you weren’t.”

Rosier glances at Nott from the corner of his eye, but Nott doesn’t say anything—he seems the strong, silent type. Bellatrix seems to understand what Rosier’s saying in an instant. She groans, shaking her head over and over again.

“_No_, Evan. I _ refuse! _” she declares dramatically, on the cusp of shrieking.

“What?” Ron asks slowly.

“Why are you here, Potter?” Bellatrix asks, taking another step closer. She towers over Harry in her enormous impractical boots, but they fit her personality perfectly, so very wickedly sharp.

“I’m here to join your stupid duelling team,” Harry says.

“Absolutely _ not_. Our team is _ full_,” Bellatrix declares, shaking her head. She sits down atop the closest desk and turns her head, sticking her nose in the air.

At this angle, she resembles Sirius most strongly and it’s more than a little disconcerting. The Blacks have _ strong _genes, though Harry has always noticed that Malfoy resembles his father more than he does Bellatrix’s older sister, Narcissa.

“It’s really not,” Rabastan pipes up, his voice slightly higher than his brother’s. “And Potter is...you’re quite good, aren’t you, Potter?”

“I am,” Harry acknowledges. “And Hermione knows a lot, theoretically. And Ron is a strategist. We’d make your team stronger.”

Ron makes a soft sound in the back of his throat that Harry ignores for now. He doesn’t have the time to dissect _ that_. Bellatrix sneers and the way she’s looking at Harry, and then back to Riddle, makes Harry think that she might know something. She must know something.

That _ terrifies _him.

“Tom, you can’t possibly be thinking about—”

“Dumbledore thinks that our club is too elitist,” Riddle says. Bellatrix shuts up immediately, her eyes narrowing. “He thinks I use ‘exclusionary tactics’ that discourages other students from participating.”

“This _ would _shut him up,” Rodolphus says.

The longer Harry watches them, the more he understands the way the Death Eaters’ hierarchy works. Riddle is on top, which makes sense. Rodolphus and Bellatrix are his seconds, the only ones brave enough to stand up to him. The rest fall in line accordingly.

“He’s a _ Gryffindor_. He’s _ Potter_,” Bellatrix spits. “Did you forget what he said—”

“Harry and I have settled our differences, haven’t we?” Riddle asks, his burgundy eyes flashing. He’s daring him. It reminds Harry of the locker room, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

Harry shifts. He presses his thighs together and bites his tongue against even a taste of arousal.

“Yes,” Harry says firmly.

He ignores the weight of Ron’s and Hermione’s eyes, keeping his stare locked on Riddle.

Riddle smirks like he knows what Harry’s thinking.

Harry wants to punch him in the _ throat_.

“Well,” Riddle drawls, loftily. “I _ suppose _you held your own—”

“Get on with it, Riddle,” Harry barks.

Riddle smirks. “Welcome to the duelling team, Harry. And friends.”

He turns away, jumps off the duelling platform, and presumably goes to fill out the necessary paperwork. Bellatrix looks quietly furious and she’s already stalking over to Riddle, hissing soft curses at him that he easily ignores.

“Merlin, mate, what have you gotten us into?” Ron murmurs in Harry’s ear.

Harry swallows hard.

_ He’s not sure. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Citation:
> 
> A few of these spells are from this Reddit post I saw when I was trolling Google:
> 
> https://www.reddit.com/r/harrypotter/comments/45j0ii/duelingdark_arts_curses_and_countercurses/


	19. WEDNESDAY, 4:47PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it's revealed that Dean is dating again.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "You just want attention, you don't want my heart  
Maybe you just hate the thought of me with someone new  
Yeah, you just want attention, I knew from the start  
You're just making sure I'm never gettin' over you"
> 
> Attention, Charlie Puth

“Lupin assigns too much homework,” Ron declares for the sixth time in the last twenty minutes alone.

“You’ve said,” Ginny drawls as she makes her way through an OWL practice exam for Charms. She looks up from it and stares across at Ron’s textbook, attempting to read it upside down. “When do you start duelling?”

“Next Monday. Honestly, I just hope I’m not paired with Harry,” Ron says, his lips curling into a teasing smile as he glances across the table at Harry.

Harry looks up from his Potions homework and rolls his eyes. “You’ll be _ fine_.”

“You’re always so prepared to lose, Ronald,” Ginny says, always so very teasing. She tuts. “For _ shame_.”

“Harry doesn’t pull his spells. It’s like he’s trying to kill someone,” Ron says.

Ginny looks over at Harry, surprised, and then, insultingly, turns to Hermione as if she’s the only one that can offer confirmation. Hermione is very painstakingly copying out a new set of runes out onto her parchment.

Without looking up, Hermione confirms, “Oh, yes, Harry’s brutal.”

“I am _ not,” _ Harry insists, shaking his head. He looks over at Ginny, rolling his eyes. “They’re just dramatic.”

“I’m not sure Hermione is capable of being dramatic,” Ginny says with a small smirk. Harry frowns at her, but it rolls right off of Ginny. She leans back in her seat and sighs, popping her back as she looks over her practice OWL. “Where’s Luna? I need her help with this Charms theory.”

“Heading over with Lavender, I expect,” Hermione says absent-mindedly. She looks up from her work, a slightly agitated expression on her face that Harry can’t parse no matter how hard he tries to. “She’s seemed rather peppy recently. Lavender, I mean.”

“Lavender’s always ‘peppy’,” Ron disagrees. “What makes you think she’s more peppy than usual.”

“Well, Riddle broke up all of his acquaintances, didn’t he?” Hermione asks, and now, she glances over at Harry pointedly. Harry turns his gaze elsewhere as a lump suddenly develops in his throat. He clears it twice, but nothing seems to happen. “Maybe she thinks it’s her time.”

“She can’t be that...Merlin, you think she still fancies him?” Ron demands, sounding far more dismayed than a _ friend _ has any right to.

“I think she does,” Hermione says simply. “Someone should let her know that it’s not going to happen, right? For her own sake.”

“Lavender does what she wants. She’s got this blinding optimistic belief that Riddle will come to his senses and just...fall in love with her,” Ginny says, shaking her head. She speaks about it much less pointedly than Hermione, sounding vaguely interested in the whole idea. She tosses her hand and sighs. “See, Lavender fundamentally misunderstands Riddle. Riddle isn’t going to be the type to be tamed by a sycophant.”

“Lavender is _ not _a sycophant,” Ron insists, even though Harry is about eighty-percent sure he doesn’t actually know what that word means.

“‘Tamed’? Is he a wild animal that we don’t know of?” Harry asks casually.

And Ginny smirks over at him. “Apparently, he is in bed.”

Ron pauses, staring at his sister. “How do you know that?”

“After he dumped all his acquaintances, one of them tried to spread rumors that he was awful in bed, but there was _ resounding _ disagreement amongst everyone else that’s slept with him,” Ginny says firmly. “Apparently, he’s _ quite _generous.”

And fuck, Harry doesn’t want to think about that.

He doesn’t want to think about Riddle or how generous he might be, about how his hands might feel when they’re pressing out knots from Quidditch or how his mouth might feel on one of the bruises on Harry’s thigh, made from his broom.

“Ugh, stop talking about Riddle in _ bed_,” Ron groans, shaking his head. “I especially don’t want to hear it from _ you _.”

“What’s wrong with hearing it from me?” Ginny challenges.

“It’s because you’re his little sister. He finds it distasteful,” Hermione says before Ron can, ending an argument before it even begins. She looks up, staring over at Ginny with a shrewd expression on her face. “How are _ you_, habibi?”

Harry frowns.

“What do you mean?” Ginny asks.

“About Dean and Padma.”

“Padma _ who_?” Ginny spits.

Harry’s eyes widen.

“I...I didn’t know you weren’t aware. Dean is seeing Padma Patil. At least, that’s what I’ve heard,” Hermione says, her voice getting softer and more unsure with each passing word, as she realizes that she’s said something wrong. She glances at Harry, but he shrugs, just as panicked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says.

“When did they start seeing one another?” Ginny barks, her voice hard.

“Does it matter?” Hermione cringes.

“Hermione. _ When. _” It’s no longer a question.

“Not too long,” Hermione admits. “They’ve only been to Hogsmeade, and I hear they’re studying together.”

Ginny flushes, though from what, Harry isn’t sure.

“He’s already _ dating_,” Ginny whispers in disbelief.

“Dean doesn’t really stay single long, does he?” Ron asks. “First, Romilda Vane. Then, you. Now, Padma. What do girls see in him?”

Ginny sneers at her brother, shaking her head. “How could he be dating already? Everyone must’ve heard...but—”

“I heard he went down on her.”

The quartet looks up just as Luna dances forward, dropping her bag on the table. Ron turns a bright red at the Ravenclaw’s words, but Luna acts as if she hasn’t said anything particularly important.

“He did _ what_?” Ginny screeches, and almost the entire library looks her way.

“Who is shouting in my library?” Madame Pince barks from around the corner, but even that is barely enough to get Ginny to simmer down.

“_Muffliato_,” Harry casts; he wouldn’t mind being kicked out of the library, but he knows that Hermione would have a fucking conniption. “Ginny—”

“He went _ down _on her, Luna?” Ginny demands, and she sounds angry, but there’s something about her face that betrays how terribly hurt she is too.

“That’s what I heard. Mandy Brocklehurst and Lisa Turpin were talking about it,” Luna says. “Apparently, he’s quite good. Good job, Ginny.”

“_Don’t _congratulate me,” Ginny says, dangerously, and in that moment, as if struck by lightning, Harry sees what the problem is.

“Oh, Dean never—” Harry trails off, because Ron looks a little green. He changes tactics swiftly. “Does it really bother you that he’s seeing someone already? I thought you were both trying to be friends?”

“I guess not if he didn’t...it’s just...how does he already have his shite figured out? And Zabini and I can’t even…” Ginny trails off, shaking her head. All of her rage seeps out of her, and her shoulders sag as she presses her hands to her face and let out a long, ragged sigh. She looks up again, exhaustion at the corners of her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It’s whatever.”

“It’s not _ whatever_,” Hermione says firmly. “It’s understandable that you’d be upset. But, Ginny, it’s not a competition to see who gets over who first.”

“But, it’s not as simple as that either,” Luna jumps in. She reaches over the table and presses a kiss to Ginny’s forehead before looking her straight in the eye. “You’ll be just fine, Ginny Weasley. Blaise Zabini says you’re worth standing in the rain for.”

Ginny flushes, eyes wide and she nods.

Harry’s teeth ache from the sweetness of it all. He turns away, and his slight disgust is immediately replaced by irritation. He waves his wand sharply, sharp enough to make everyone jump, as he ends the _ Muffliato_, and he glares over at where Lavender is still lingering.

Her muffled giggles easily float over to their table. She’s got that glazed, slightly hysterical look on her face that she always gets when she’s talking to Riddle. She’s staring up at him, and they do look lovely together, because Lavender _ is _lovely, even if she thinks she isn’t and Riddle—everyone knows what Riddle looks like.

_ Harry _knows what Riddle looks like.

Lavender’s eyes widen when Riddle says something, and then she turns, and looks directly at Harry. Harry nearly jumps as Lavender’s gaze searches his face, and her brows crease, before she turns back to Riddle and nods. Riddle gestures to the table and Lavender hums.

“What…” Ron asks and then trails off when the pair start walking towards them.

They wait in silence even as Lavender and Riddle keep talking like they’re the _ best _of friends, and Harry swallows his irritation.

“Lavender, we thought you were right behind Luna,” Hermione says stiffly, shooting a look over at Harry, like it’s _ his _fault that she’d stopped to talk to Riddle.

“Oh, no, she stopped to speak with Riddle,” Luna says as plain as day, like that was supposed to be a common fucking occurrence.

“Yes, I wanted to ask him for some clarification on the Defence work, and he brought up that Harry, Hermione, and Ron have joined his duelling club?” Lavender asks, sweetly, those words growing pointed with accusation.

Harry’s nose wrinkles. “On a _ trial run_. We’re not committed or anything,” Harry insists.

Lavender hums. “Well, Tom suggested that we join as well. We meaning the rest of our little study group. As reserves.”

“Or at least to learn something,” Riddle adds, finally deigning to speak. He doesn’t fold under Harry’s fearsome glare, only growing more pleased by it. “Harry is _ quite _the duellist. Fights to kill.”

“Told you,” Ron provides unhelpfully.

“Shut up,” Harry snaps softly before he looks back at Riddle. “I’m not sure—”

“Well, it’ll be nice to have a private tutor, yes?” Lavender asks, blinking rapidly at Riddle.

“Harry could tutor you, Lavender,” Hermione tries.

It’s as if Lavender doesn’t even hear her. “Tom’s the T.A. He’d know every part of the material, wouldn’t he?”

“We train Tuesdays and Thursdays. I hope that you become a _ permanent _member of the duelling team,” Riddle says charmingly. He pulls out the last empty seat for Lavender and she collapses into it, thoroughly charmed.

And when she can’t see his face, Riddle winks.

Right. At. Harry.

Harry’s eyes narrow.

And he grips the edge of the table to keep himself from _ throttling _Tom fucking Riddle.


	20. THURSDAY, 5:33PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a trial run commences.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Oh, we're ready, honey  
I got all the skills  
You've given all our love for you  
Everything you taught me honey  
It never even mattered, really  
It's all of our love for you"
> 
> -With You in My Head (feat. The Black Angels), UNKLE

Harry glares at Bellatrix, and she glares back at him, sitting on the other side of the duelling platform, while the rest of the Death Eaters chat amongst one another, words soft as breath against paper. Harry strains his ears to hear them, but most of his attention is caught by Bellatrix’s glare, and Merlin, he can’t help but glare back, because he _ knows _how terrible Bellatrix can be.

“Where’s Riddle? When is this going to start?” Ron complains.

Hermione snorts. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to dinner soon enough,” she taunts.

Ron scowls at her, good-naturedly, and Harry gives him a pat on the shoulder, still not looking away from Bellatrix.

“Come on, mate. It’ll be fun. First duelling team meeting, and all that,” Harry says dryly.

He glances at Ron for a moment, flashes him a smile, and when he looks back at Bellatrix, she’s baring her teeth at him.

“Harry...are you _ sure _you know what you’re doing?” Hermione hisses in his ear for the third time.

She’s the only one that might know something’s not quite right with what’s going on. She watches him from the corner of her eye, and he can see her worry—she’s so worried that her hair looks frizzier than normal, and she’s tamed it back into a tight puff atop her head, and she smells like Sleakeazy’s gel and coconut oil.

“Never. I never know what I’m doing,” Harry admits, and he smiles to try to make it seem like he’s not being serious, but Hermione _ knows_.

She gives him a severe look, and Ron is shooting the pair of them confused looks—that look he always gives them when he feels like they’re being too secretive—and then he redirects his stare because Luna, Ginny, and most _ importantly_, Lavender has arrived. Ron goes dumb, staring at her wide-eyed, and Harry doesn’t understand why Lavender just can’t like _ Ron. _

Ron is _ nice _ . Ron isn’t a total arse that would tell everyone that he slept with Lavender. Ron isn’t a total arse that would go on a _ date _with Lavender’s friends.

_ (Ron isn’t an arsehole that Harry wa—) _

Lavender is talking over her shoulder to someone, and her expression is too exaggerated and bright for it to be anyone but Tom _ fucking _Riddle. Harry’s suspicions are proven right when Ginny pushes at Lavender’s shoulder, hurrying her in, and Tom Riddle stalks in after the trio of girls.

He doesn’t look _ annoyed, _exactly, by all of Lavender’s incessant chattering, but that might be because he’s good at faking like he’s not.

“—so much to learn, and I can’t imagine learning it from anyone but you,” Lavender finishes, and she takes a deep breath afterward, nearly a gasp, like she hasn’t stopped talking for ages.

Riddle’s eyes narrow; he wants to say something, probably cruel and biting, and then, he looks over at Harry, and takes a deep breath.

“Surely,” is all Riddle says. “I believe your friends are waiting for you, Brown.”

And for a moment, Lavender looks crushed because Riddle has _ never _addressed her as ‘Brown’, but she puts on a stiff upper lip and nods once before marching over to join Harry and the others, a great sacrifice to be sure. She smirks over at Harry and sits right in front of him, like she’s the first in the row of a particularly exciting lecture.

Riddle glances over his shoulder at Harry and the rest of the Defence Squad, before he turns back to the rest of the Death Eater. Bellatrix stands up in one fluid motion, and she presses closer, entering Riddle’s personal space without even a thought. She drags her hand down his shoulder, tugging on his blazer and Harry bites his tongue hard to keep himself from spitting a Stinging Hex at her.

Rosier says something, eyes flickering over to the Gryffindors and their Ravenclaw.

“—tell if it’s rage or if he wants to eat—” Rodolphus Lestrange is saying, and then Bellatrix hushes him violently, personally attacked by Rodolphus’ words.

Riddle glances over his shoulder at Harry as he shrugs off his blazer and tosses it to the side. He smirks.

“Are you just going to gossip or are we going to start?” Harry barks across the room.

Bellatrix shoots him a vicious look. “Nobody _ invited _you.”

“It’s an open club. We didn’t have to be invited,” Hermione shoots back, just as fast, and Bellatrix scowls at being spoken to. She sniffs, throwing her nose in the air as she turns back to Riddle, hissing something at him.

Riddle waves away whatever her concerns are, clasping his hands behind his back as he looks to his new ‘recruits’. Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Welcome to the Hogwarts Duelling Club,” Riddle deadpans. “I’m the team captain. I’ve been a part of the duelling club since my second year. This will be the third year that I will be competitively duelling. While the team as a whole hasn’t won the Interschool Duelling Competition in my time as part of said-club, I have personally won individual awards for my performance.”

“Are you just going to keep bragging or…” Harry can’t help but heckle.

Riddle raises an eyebrow, and Lavender turns, a vicious look in her eyes. She flicks Harry hard in the cheek.

“Shut _ up_,” she hisses before turning back to Riddle, a beatific smile on her face. “We’re sorry about that, Tom.”

“Right,” Riddle drawls. He glances around at everyone. “While today we won’t begin formal training, I thought it would be best to...lay out the rules.”

And he does.

Harry hates to admit it, but Riddle knows how to command a room—without snideness or smarm. He goes through the tournament rules like a real duelling instructor would, explaining carefully, and when Hermione raises her hand to ask about doubles vs. singles, he doesn’t sneer like Bellatrix does. He very carefully explains himself, thorough enough that Hermione doesn’t even have any follow-ups—very unlike her.

“Where are we in the line-up, then? Are we seeing any action?” Ginny pipes up after receiving the dates for the duelling tournament—beginning the first weekend back after the holidays. She looks quietly intrigued.

“Doubt it,” Rabastan snorts. He winces when he gets a look from Riddle.

“Starting next meeting, we’ll be assessing where each of you stands in terms of skillset. Most of you will probably do better as a duo. You’ll be paired with one of us to get you up to speed,” Riddle decides.

Almost immediately, there’s an uproar.

“What do you mean paired with one of us?” Bellatrix demands appalled.

Ron turns on Harry. “You can’t be _ serious_. Duelling with a Slytherin? A _ Death Eater_? They’ll curse us the moment our backs are turned!” Ron insists.

“You’re worried about _ us_?” Rodolphus retorts, glaring across the room at Ron. “_You’re _the ones that are randomly joining our club. Why are you here anyway?”

Ron glances over at Harry, like he can’t help it. Harry glares across the room, his arms folded. Riddle returns his stare, a sly look crossing his face.

“Harry, of course, will be paired with myself,” Riddle continues. Before Harry can protest, Riddle gives him an apologetic look. “You’re the only one with the skill to duel me. As you’ve so demonstrated.”

“You’ve duelled?” Lavender demands, raising an eyebrow at Harry.

“Once,” Harry drawls, eyes narrowing at Riddle.

Riddle turns away again, steadily laying out the rules and expectations for the next meeting before he presents a roll of parchment. “Before you go, you’ll need to sign your names. As part of the charter.”

Lavender jumps up, the first one ready to commit her soul.

“I thought this was a trial run,” Harry warns.

Riddle raises an eyebrow. “Oh, is it?” he asks, so _ damn _ innocent.

“It is _ not_,” Lavender snaps, and she crosses the room, batting her eyes up at Riddle before she signs with a flourish, ending her signature with a heart.

Ginny and Luna are the next to do so, and Harry reluctantly stands, following Ron and Hermione. Hermione looks over at Harry, apologetically.

“It sounds…rather interesting, doesn’t it?” Hermione suggests.

“You’re not wrong there, Granger,” Rosier says, looking over at Hermione appreciatively.

She returns his gaze with pursed lips, but doesn’t say anything as she very carefully signs her name. Ron follows, and then, it’s only Harry, clutching Riddle’s quill in his hand. He looks over at the Death Eaters, and they all look amused, like they _ know_. Bellatrix, certainly, knows, from the way she looks ready to crush the life out of Harry.

“I’ll wait,” Harry decides, setting his quill down, staring up at Riddle, _ waiting _for an argument.

Riddle smiles as if it doesn’t bother him, but Harry can see his irritation. It just makes Harry _ beam_.

Riddle clears his throat and turns to address the club at large. “Well, then, I look forward to assembling as a true club next Tuesday. Meeting adjourned.”

It’s like a spell has been broken. The Death Eaters stop paying rapt attention—despite already knowing all of the information repeated for the benefit of the newly-inducted Gryffindors—and turn to gossip amongst themselves.

“—getting ready for the party tomorrow night?” Nott asks, and Harry realizes this is the first time he’s ever heard him speak.

Bellatrix seems to be considering the question, but Lavender has never been able to leave things alone. She beams at the group of them and swiftly crosses to them.

“Are you _ also _going to the Hufflepuff party?” she chirps.

The Death Eaters stare at her. Rabastan’s eyebrows furrow like she’s spoken a language he doesn’t understand. Bellatrix appears disgusted. Harry moves without thinking, going to stand at Lavender’s shoulder like her shadow. He can feel Ron join him.

“I...yes?” Rosier finally says, glancing over at Riddle.

Riddle is pretending not to listen, inspecting the roster again.

Lavender follows Rosier’s gaze, and her cheeks turn a rosy pink. “I think it’ll be a good idea. An opportunity for us to _ bond _as a club,” Lavender says. “I hope I see all of you there!”

And then, she turns on her heel, bouncing away as if she’s done something.

Ron and Harry exchange bewildered looks, and cast one more look back at the equally confused Death Eaters before they meet the girls by the door.

“That was _ interesting_,” Luna says, almost meaningfully. “I think this will be good for us.”

“Which part?” Ginny asks. “The hanging out with Slytherins or the potential _ maiming _by Slytherins?”

“Well, we’ll _ also _ be learning how to maim, won’t we?” Luna challenges with a sweet smile. Ginny snorts, linking her arms with the silver-haired girl. “And I meant nearly everything about it. I’ve never learned much about duelling. But, an entire duelling _ competition_? That sounds quite fun, doesn’t it?”

“I expected it to be a barbaric sport. A little like MMA,” Hermione says. She frowns at their empty looks. “Mixed martial arts. It’s...hitting people. With your fists. Through martial art forms.”

“Muggle duelling sounds rather savage, doesn’t it?” Ron says slowly.

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “I’d watch the use of that word. ‘Savage’,” she warns, spitting it like it’s poison. Ron stares at her, wide-eyed, and Harry pats Hermione’s hand, drawing her back to her former point. “Anyway, it’s quite regulated, isn’t it? And Dark Arts, though used, it seems like it’s meant for specialized duels. Like Riddle would be paired with someone that could _ also _use Dark Arts, so it’d be even, wouldn’t it?”

“Doesn’t mean we should watch it for sport,” Harry mutters under his breath with little heat. He ignores Hermione’s knowing look.

“Well, _ I’m _ excited to _ learn_,” Lavender says.

Ginny snorts. “I think you’re more excited to be in Riddle’s presence. I thought you were over him,” Ginny says. Immediately, Ron’s expression falls into a deep frown.

Lavender flushes delicately. “I _ am _ over him,” she says unconvincingly as they walk down the corridor, heading for dinner. There’s the sound of the Death Eaters spilling out of the empty classroom too, and Harry takes a right, deciding to take the long way to avoid being overheard. Lavender casts him a semi-grateful look. “I just...oh, you _ guys, _ he’s just so _ cute _.”

“Is he?” Ron asks, nose wrinkling. “He...he looks kinda like a git. A rich git.”

“That’s because he _ is _a rich git,” Harry declares firmly.

Ginny snorts into her sleeve.

“He is _ not_,” Lavender protests. “You know as well as I that he’s an _ orphan _, Harry.”

“Well, Harry’s a rich specky git too,” Ron says pointedly, cackling to avoid Harry’s jabs. “Doesn’t mean Riddle can’t be one too.”

“Tom Riddle’s net worth doesn’t really seem to be the point, does it?” Luna asks delicately. She looks over at Lavender. “Also, you’re not over him. You still fancy him.”

Lavender huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, I can’t _ help _ it. Anyway, I’ll...maybe when we go to the Hufflepuff party, we’ll see him there?” Lavender says. There’s a brief moment of silence, and then she spins on all of them. “We _ are _going aren’t we?”

“We just _ finished _ detention for sneaking out past curfew, Lavender,” Hermione begins worriedly, and then, she throws Harry a _ look _, and he looks away, pretending that he doesn’t know what it means.

“_ Exactly _ . We’re finished!” Lavender says, cheerfully. “And _ you _ only got _ two _ detentions. Come on, you guys, we _ have _to go. It’ll be so fun!”

Ginny seems to be seriously contemplating it and then, she nods. “I...maybe, I’ll ask Zabini if he wants to go,” she murmurs, growing more and more pleased with herself and the idea. “And you _ have _to come too, Luna.”

Luna nods the affirmative.

“Can’t let you two go alone, now can I?” Ron adds.

“Ronald!” Hermione protests. “You’re a prefect!”

“So, are you,” Ron retorts. “Guess that means you’re coming with me to keep an eye on this lot.”

Hermione groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And you, Harry?” she asks.

And Harry seriously considers it.

He considers sneaking out to go to the Hufflepuff party, and having fun with his friends. He imagines dancing with them and laughing and losing himself in the music.

And then, he imagines the Death Eaters there too. He imagines Tom Riddle with the music, in the dark.

_ (Anything can happen in the dark.) _

“No. It’s weekend supper tomorrow night. I’m gonna see Sirius,” Harry decides. “Probably work on some Quidditch plays.”

Lavender pouts, but Hermione looks almost relieved by his choice, somehow.

“Alright,” Hermione says. “Alright. Let’s form a plan over dinner.”


	21. FRIDAY, 10:47PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry goes to save a friend (well, at least, that's his _excuse_).
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Look what you've done  
I’m a motherfuckin' starboy  
Look what you've done  
I'm a motherfuckin’ starboy"
> 
> \- Starboy, The Weeknd

Harry is content, sitting on the couch, picking at his treacle tart while he sketches out Quidditch plays. He should be looking at his homework—he has twelve inches due for Transfiguration—but he has the rest of the weekend to think about it, and he thinks he wants to ask Hermione to help him outline. So, instead, he looks at the Weasley siblings’ messily sketched plays and tries to form them into something cohesive.

“What if Ginny was a left winger?” Harry asks the room at large.

Remus looks up from the essays he’s grading, and Sirius glances away from whatever book he’s looking at.

“Is she subtle enough?” Sirius asks.

Remus still looks contemplative. “She _ could _be. You’d need to work on her on it, wouldn’t you?” Remus asks. “How does she interact with the Beaters?”

“She’s reckless and unfortunately, Peakes favors his left. Maybe not,” Harry mutters. He winces at the thought of Peakes swinging just a little too hard, and a Bludger knocking Ginny right off her fucking Nimbus. It’s a bad thought.

Sirius shuts his book rather loudly and slides from his armchair, going to join Harry and sitting at Harry’s feet. He tilts his head back and looks up at Harry, and Harry looks down, a small smile working its way across his face.

“Why aren’t you out tonight?” Sirius asks.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Encouraging me to break the rules?” Harry challenges. He glances over at Remus who is pretending that he isn’t smiling. “Hear that, Moony? Padfoot wants me to break the _ rules_.”

“I want you to be with your friends and having fun, not hanging out with your fuddy duddy godfathers,” Sirius retorts.

Remus lets out a tiny scoff, as if to say that _ he’s _not fuddy duddy in any way, shape, or form. “Harry’s very busy. He’s preparing for his NEWTs, he’s Quidditch captain,” Remus says like he’s gearing up to something, and then he looks up, and continues, “and I hear that you’re joining the duelling team.”

Harry stiffens.

“Who did you hear that from?”

Remus’ eyes sparkle with mischief. “My TA.”

Sirius sits up straighter. “That TA being...young Tom Riddle. The Tom Riddle you went on a _ date _with?” he asks, his voice swinging higher.

“_Appointment_,” Harry corrects, shaking his head. “And it’s...on a trial basis. Or whatever.”

“Well, no matter, I think you’ll be an excellent addition to the team. It adds some diversity to the team—”

“Riddle said something about that. Dumbledore wanted a different House?” Harry asks.

“_Professor _Dumbledore just felt that it was beginning to look like a very exclusive social club,” Remus says.

Harry scoffs. Dumbledore isn’t wrong. Everyone knows that the Death Eaters and the duelling team are practically synonymous.

Except, they’re not now because the Ginny Weasley Defence Squad are on the team now.

“There are rumors about this year’s duelling competition,” Sirius volunteers. He only continues when he has Remus and Harry’s full attentions, because that’s just Sirius’ brand. “I had lunch with Marlene McKinnon—”

“Your ex-girlfriend?” Remus asks.

“We’re still _ friends_,” Sirius says, waving Remus’ concerns away. Remus just rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I had lunch with Marlene McKinnon and she said that there are rumors about a gambling ring going on based on the outcome of the tournament. Your young man is apparently _ quite _the duellist.”

For a moment, Harry thinks about Tom Riddle the duellist. He _ is _a good duellist. He’s excellent, even, talented and sure of himself. He’s quick too, and seems to hold this encyclopedic knowledge of spells, even if he’s quick to use the Darkest ones in order to secure himself a win. And then, the first part of what Sirius say comes back to Harry.

“I. Uh. He. Is _ not _ my ‘young man’,” Harry sputters, shaking his head so fast, he feels like a wet dog. Sirius throws back his head and cackles even as Harry reaches down and shoves his head. “Stop _ it_! Riddle isn’t...he’s just an arrogant _ toerag _of a human being.”

And Remus just looks at him fondly and says, “You remind me of your mother.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“You _ like _him, Harry. I can tell,” Sirius teases.

“You don’t know him. He’s an arsehole,” Harry says firmly, and that, at least, doesn’t sound like a lie. He takes a deep breath and summons the spirit of Hermione, preparing to launch himself into a long tirade about why he can’t stand Tom _ fucking _Riddle.

And then, Hermione’s _ actual _spirit is summoned.

Or rather her Patronus.

Harry’s always found Hermione’s Patronus—an otter—rather cute, but as it darts into the sitting room, Remus stands up, alert and worried. No one just _ sends _a Patronus message to someone. Harry stares at the Patronus for a long time, all good humor sliding out of him.

Then the otter lands on the table, right in front of Harry, and opens its mouth.

Hermione’s voice emerges: “_Harry, I don’t have our parchment right now, but Lavender’s disappeared. We were at the Hufflepuff party and she tried to talk to Riddle, and then, she was sobbing. She ran off, and we can’t find her, and Ginny is so _ drunk_. Please come! Bring the Map!” _

And then, the Patronus Charm dissipates, little white sparkles falling onto the table. Harry sits frozen for a moment, his mind racing kilometers a minute.

Lavender spoke to Riddle.

Lavender _ cried _after speaking with Riddle.

_ What had he said to her_?

“That...doesn’t sound good,” Sirius says uncertainly. He looks over at Harry. “Is that...that’s the girl that likes Riddle, right?”

Remus groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Another _ party_?” he demands.

Harry buries his face in his hands and groans, because this...he has to _ handle _this. When he looks up again, he looks directly over at Moony. Moony already looks resigned to his fate.

“I need to take care of this,” Harry says firmly.

“It’s after hours, Harry—” Remus begins.

Harry shakes his head. “She’s my friend, Moony. I have to go get here. Let me do this, please,” Harry begs. He knows Remus to be the pushover—not that Sirius isn’t a pushover either—and he stands up, crossing over to Remus at the kitchen table. He slides into the seat directly across from him. “Come on, Moony. I gotta get Lavender, and I don’t know where she is.”

Sirius jumps up from the ground and follows Harry, easily slotting himself into Remus’ lap, between Remus and the kitchen table. He wraps his arms around Remus’ neck, pressing his cheek to the top of Remus’ tawny brown hair. Remus’ hands settle on Sirius’ hips.

“Come on, Moony,” Sirius drawls. “This will be a formative experience for our Harry.”

Harry resists the urge to snort, smothering it in his sleeve. “Yes, Moony, _ formative_,” Harry insists.

“_We _ didn’t want adults cramping our style when _ we _ were kids, and _ we _had the Map too,” Sirius continues. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to each of Remus’ cheeks, and he smirks when Remus’ hands tighten against him. “At least, with Harry, we know that he’ll use it responsibly.”

“That’s why he got it confiscated!” Remus protests. “He wasn’t using it _ responsibly_. He was sneaking out on school nights.”

“Did the full moon wait for weekends, Moony?” Sirius challenges. “He snuck out to help a _ friend_, just like he will now.”

Remus groans, his head tilting backwards, and he closes his eyes, thinking on it for a moment. Sirius leans back, glancing over his shoulder to wink at Harry.

“Don’t wink at him,” Remus retorts without even opening his eyes. He stands up, and Sirius slides off his lap, leaning back against the kitchen table, grey eyes bright with triumph. Remus snorts and pulls his wand, going through a motion too complicated for a simple Summoning Spell.

But, even as he casts his spell, the Marauder’s Map zooms from wherever he had it locked up, and settles on the kitchen table, right in front of Harry.

“Thank you!” Harry blurts out.

“Use it _ responsibly_, Harry. I mean it,” Remus warns. “Go find your friend and escort her _ right _ back to Gryffindor Tower. I’ll give you twenty minutes, and then, I’ll be alerting Professor Sprout to the party occurring in her _ Common Room _.”

Harry groans, shaking his head. Trust Remus to make him look like an Auror.

“You’re going to rat them out?” Sirius demands.

“I’m a _ professor_, Sirius!” Remus insists, and before they can devolve into a petty argument—albeit a cute one because somehow Harry does find his embarrassing godparents rather cute—Harry pops up, and awkwardly hugs Remus.

Remus looks down, surprised, because it’s rather uncharacteristic of Harry.

Everyone hugs Harry first.

“Thank _ you _ ,” Harry says and then, he runs to grab his wand, Hermione’s rather magical parchment, and snatches up the Marauder’s Map before he darts away, a mission in mind. As he walks from the flat through Remus’ study to the DADA room, he casts, “ _ ‘I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good’. _”

Harry doesn’t realize how much he missed the Marauder’s Map until it opens in his hands and he watches the ink spread, marking where everyone is. He flips through rapidly, eyes darting around, but he lands on the Hufflepuff Common Room, first. He sees the cluster of names, all overlapping with one another—too many to count—but he catches a ‘Herm’, a ‘—sley’, and a ‘Rid—’.

Harry’s eyes narrow and he goes down the Serpentine Corridor from Classroom 3C. He swallows as he glances at the staircase that leads straight down to the first floor.

The only problem: at the bottom is Professor McGonagall’s office.

_ What would Hermione do_? Harry asks himself.

He clears his throat and whispers, “_Silencio_,” at his feet, and begins his descent, keeping his breath so low and shallow, he can barely hear himself as he goes through the dark. He doesn’t dare to light the end of his wand as he creeps down the corridor to the next staircase—down into the basement.

Now, he whispers, “_Lumos_,” and lets the soft white light guide his way.

He glances down at the Marauder’s Map, and curses under his breath.

Fucking Mrs. Norris.

He moves swiftly down by the kitchens and swings into the little nook that he knows leads into the Hufflepuff Common Room. He slides between the barrels and searches for the one he needs. He glances down at the Marauder’s Map again.

She’s close. _ Far _too close.

He can hear her soft meows.

He locates the barrel two from the bottom, middle of the second row, and painstakingly taps the rhythm of ‘Helga Hufflepuff’. He finally breathes easy when the lid swings open, exposing the passageway that leads right into the Hufflepuff Basement. He crawls, tracking through the basement, and stops suddenly as the sudden acrid, sour taste of vomit hits his nose.

Harry gags and lifts his wand to see a pool of vomit just right _ there_, in the middle of the tunnel.

“Fucking _ gross_,” he groans. “_Evanesco_.”

The pool of vomit Vanishes but the smell lingers and he coughs and gags as he crawls forward towards the mouth of the tunnel.

Immediately, he’s met with loud pounding music, so loud that it rattles Harry’s teeth and he winces away from it, clasping his hands to his ears. Before he makes any more moves, with a whispered _ ‘Mischief Managed_’, he tucks the map into his back pocket and stands up, looking around.

Most every upper-year is around, gyrating to the sounds of a magically enhanced harp and a magic violin, along with the screaming shrieks of the French Veela pop star, Colette. Harry takes in his surroundings—he’s only been in the Hufflepuff Basement once before—and he’s as amazed as always. In the light, it might look homey, round and earthy with low ceilings and artificial sun coming through portholes.

But, now, with the sharp yellow lights, everyone looks overexposed and still cast in shadows. Harry swallows, and then, he catches a glimpse of red hair, a person that stands taller than most others.

Harry jerks through the crowd, shoving people out of the way.

“Ron!” he shouts. “Ron!”

Finally, he captures Ron’s attention. Ron spins around, waving his arms through the air like a wild person, his eyes bright with excitement.

“HARRY! YOU CAME!” Ron says cheerfully, throwing his arms around Harry and dragging him in. His other arm is wrapped around Hermione, and she looks caught between drunk and worried, eyes darting around nervously.

When she realizes that Harry’s arrived, Harry watches her relaxes and she melts into his side, grinning.

“Harry! You’re here!”

“Yes, yes, but where’s Lavender? Have you seen her?” Harry asks, urgently, but they either can’t hear him due to the music or are too drunk to care.

“DANCE WITH US, HARRY! WE’RE HAVING FUN!” Ron cheers, jumping up and down, shrieking something else unintelligible.

Harry groans. “Thanks, but no,” he says, shoving Ron’s arm off of him. He grabs Hermione by the hand, pulling her in. “Hermione, do you remember sending me that Patronus? Where is _ Lavender_?”

“Lavender left. Lavender went home,” Hermione recites, shaking her head. She looks dazed and she glances over at something far away. “Merlin, look at _ them. _ Harry, they’ve been snogging for _ ages_!”

Harry follows her finger, preparing himself for something—for Riddle and—and he frowns when he sees Zabini pressed up against the wall, Ginny standing on her toes while she suckles on his pulse point, and bites her way up the column of his neck to his lips. Zabini’s hands are tight on her waist, dragging him as he slowly rolls his hips, and Harry flushes, turning away, because suddenly he feels like he’s intruding.

“That’s _ great,_” Harry says sharply. “But, _ where _is Lavender? What the bloody hell happened?”

Hermione hiccups. “I-I told you! She went to talk to Riddle, like she _ always _ does, and he said something to her, and then she just started crying, and I tried to talk to her, but oh, Harry, you know I’m no _ good _at those things and Luna said she’d take care of it, so she followed, and then—Greengrass looks rather pretty tonight, doesn’t she? I like her hair.”

Harry feels like she’s just given him whiplash.

“I—what?” he asks, startled. Hermione is still staring at Greengrass, curiously, like she’s trying to assess something. Harry shakes his head. “Look, you...you stay with Ron, and I’m going to look for...well, You-Know-Who.”

“Okay!” Hermione says, distractedly, and then, Harry is off again, braving the sea of teenagers with nothing but determination and the urge to maybe punch a smug Slytherin in the face.

It doesn’t take Harry long to find Riddle.

He’s in the center of the room. Where everyone looks sallow or sick in the strange yellow lights that dance around the room, he looks absolutely otherworldly. Harry’s breath catches in his throat as he watches Riddle grin at something that Rosier says, cruel and terrible, and he throws his head back. Harry stares at the column of his neck, the Adam’s apple that he’d sink his teeth into, and he wonders what Riddle’s laughter tastes like.

And then, Harry shakes his head and banishes the thoughts away.

He shoves his way through the swaths of dancing students, his gaze narrowing on Riddle.

Harry reaches into the middle of the Death Eaters and grabs Riddle’s wrist. Almost all of them react, eyes darting up and narrowing on his face, but Riddle looks only pleasantly surprised. Harry glares up at him and drags him away, without a single care for how it may look, because apparently, Lavender is fucking _ missing_.

“Oh, manhandling, Harry?” Riddle drawls, and his voice _ cuts _ through the music unlike anyone else’s, and Harry wonders if that’s something Riddle just _ does _with his voice, or if that’s something that only Harry can hear, and he can’t think about that second option, no thanks. “Didn’t know you missed me so much.”

And Harry has had enough of his shit because he shoves Riddle against the wall and crosses his arms. Riddle goes easily even if he’s got two stones on Harry, and a generous height difference.

“What did you tell her about us?” Harry demands, and he isn’t worried because the music is so loud that Harry can hear it over his own fucking _ thoughts _.

“ ‘Us’? There’s an ‘us’?” Riddle sneers.

Harry pushes his shoulder roughly. “Me. What did you tell her about _ me _?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Riddle asks, but he’s grinning, sharp and terrible.

“It’s not _ fucking _funny, Riddle,” Harry snarls.

Riddle scoffs, looking away. “I find it pretty _ funny_.”

“Be serious, Riddle,” Harry reminds him. He presses a finger against Riddle’s sternum and glares up at him. “What did you _ tell _her? She ran out of here crying.”

“She tried to interrogate me about why I stopped seeing my acquaintances. I told her it wasn’t any of her business, and she got it into her head that _ she _was the reason. She tried to kiss me, and I rejected her. I told her that I wasn't interested, and that if she felt encouraged by my friendliness, she _shouldn't _be. It’s as simple as that,” Riddle sighs, like he’s already tired of this story, and he looks down at Harry warily as Harry works through the story

His brow furrows as he thinks on it.

“Well, were you _ nice _about it?” Harry snaps.

Riddle’s eyes narrow. “Do I _ look _nice?”

Before Harry can list all the ways that Riddle is _ not _nice, the yellow lighting of the entire room sharpens and brightens, turning everything sterile like the lighting in St. Mungo’s. Harry spins around and his eyes widen.

Time’s up.

“_WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” _

Harry had never realized that Professor Pomona Sprout could scream so damn loudly.

Riddle’s eyes narrow and he ducks his head, eyes darting around.

“_MY HUFFLEPUFFS? THROWING AN ILLICIT PARTY?_”

“We have to go,” Riddle says immediately as the entirety of the party begins to lurch, people flying towards the door, darting around Sprout with their hands over their heads as they try to disguise themselves.

Riddle grabs Harry’s hand and immediately drags him along.

Harry stumbles after him, eyes wide. “No, I-I can’t! My friends!” he insists.

“No time for that,” Riddle says, his voice never rising above a hiss, as everyone screams louder, trying to start meet-up points as Sprout spills into the room, Moony and Filch on her heels.

Harry glances over at Moony, who finds him immediately. Moony looks at him grimly, and then his eyes go down to where Riddle’s fingers are entwined with Harry’s, and he raises an eyebrow, looking rather amused. Harry flushes and moves faster.

“Let’s _ go!_” he insists, going with the sea of people even as Filch’s reaching hands try to stop them.

People are fleeing, crawling over one another through the tunnel, and Harry falls out of it next to Ginny and Zabini who look pleased and horrified by the turn of events.

“Ginny! Have you seen Hermione or Ron?” Harry blurts out. “O-Or Lavender? Luna?”

Ginny looks woozy and lost, shaking her head slightly. “Uh...what?” she says. She pauses. “_ Riddle _?”

“I need to get her back to the Common Room,” Harry says firmly.

“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” someone says immediately, and Harry blinks as Katie Bell appears, looping her arm through Ginny’s. “Look for your other friends.”

“_COME BACK HERE! I SEE YOU GRYFFINDORS!” _

“No time,” Riddle says sharply.

And then, he’s storming down the hall, hauling Harry after him, and then, they break out into a run as they hear the meows of Mrs. _ fucking _Norris.

“Why won’t this cat just drop fucking _ dead _?” Harry snarls as they run down the fucking corridor, spinning around the corner and then shoving Harry into an alcove, pressing up against him. Harry gasps as he feels the lines of Riddle’s body against his. “Hey—”

“Shut _ up_, you talk too much,” Riddle hisses, slapping a hand over Harry’s mouth. He cracks Harry on the top of his head and Harry feels like a cold egg trickles over his body, and then Riddle does the same to himself.

They breathe softly, and when Harry looks up, he can’t see Riddle anymore, not really. He can see the haziest outline in the shadows, but it’s a remarkable Disillusionment Charm.

Mrs. Norris’ meows get closer, and Riddle turns around and presses back. Harry’s trapped between the wall and the solid form of Riddle and he presses his forehead against Riddle’s back, head pressed between his shoulder blades. Riddle reaches back, groping for something and his hand lands high on Harry’s thigh.

Harry gasps, and suddenly, Mrs. Norris is there, lingering in the alcove, staring over at them with round yellow eyes.

And then, a strangled, sibilant hiss slips from Riddle’s lips. It’s a threatening, horrible sound, and Mrs. Norris yowls before she darts off, moving faster than she had all night. Riddle lingers for just a moment and then he pulls away, and Harry misses the hot brand of his large hand almost instantly. Harry lets out a shaky breath.

“_Finite Incantatem,_” Riddle whispers.

And then, Harry watches as Riddle takes shape and color once more, and he looks up, leaning back against the wall, his chest heaving.

“What the fuck was that?” Harry breathes.

“Parseltongue. She’s afraid of it,” Riddle whispers back. “It’s why she never catches us.”

Harry has so many questions.

He banishes them for a later time.

“I have to go find Lavender,” Harry whispers. “And Ron and Hermione, and possibly, Luna.”

“You can’t go anywhere,” Riddle says, shaking his head. “Mrs. Norris was just here. Filch is never far behind, and with the number of people at that Hufflepuff party, they’ll want the prefects and _ me _ to look out for any stragglers.”

Harry shakes his head, yanking out the Marauder’s Map. “I have _ this_,” he says, waving it in Riddle’s face.

“It’s...old parchment?”

Harry glares. “It’s a map of Hogwarts.”

For a moment, Riddle looks impressed. Then, he shakes his head. “If you look at your little ‘map’, you’ll see that every professor will be out in full force too. You can’t evade all of them,” Riddle disagrees. “It’ll be better to stay in my rooms until everyone’s settled and then you can properly sneak out. I’ll even cast a Disillusionment Charm for you.”

Harry sneers. “I can do that _ myself_—”

“Can you?” Riddle asks, as if he doesn’t quite believe Harry.

“Fuck you,” Harry says.

It’s as good as a _ fine_.

Riddle smirks and moves first, backing out of the alcove. He looks up and down the corridor, before tilting his head towards the right. Harry follows him out, moving as slowly and quietly as he can down another set of stairs. They arrive in a more abandoned corridor that Harry recognizes, and he sees the portrait of the python soon enough.

Harry waits for a password of some sort, but Riddle just hisses at the portrait again, and it hisses back, pale acrylic eyes flickering over Harry’s face before the door swings open, and Riddle leads him inside, like Harry’s one of his fucking _ acquaintances. _

Harry inspects the place—it’s rather sophisticated in the way that the Common Rooms aren’t. It’s grey slate, accented with plush purple sofas. There’s a kitchenette tucked in the corner, with an ice box, and two doors that lead, presumably, to the bedrooms. There are cushions by the fire dancing in the fireplace. Harry gasps when he sees that the fire is _ green_.

“_Mr. Riddle. Tom, my boy.” _

It’s _ Dumbledore_.

Harry glances at Riddle, alarmed, but Riddle doesn’t seem incredibly concerned. He strips out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa and he slides out of his slick dragonhide boots. He exchanges them for slick leather Oxfords.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Riddle calls, and his voice sounds _ different _now.

Scratchy, throaty, as if he’s just risen from sleep.

Harry’s eyes narrow.

Riddle is _ good._

“_Did I wake you, Tom, my boy?” _ Professor Dumbledore asks through the green flames. Harry tucks himself against the wall, in case, Dumbledore thinks to look through the fire. “_We seem to have a situation._”

“A situation? Of what kind, professor?” Riddle asks.

“_It seems that the Hufflepuffs took it upon themselves to throw a...soiree. If you would assemble your prefects and patrol for the next hour or so, it would be greatly appreciated_.”

“Very well, Professor,” Riddle says, and then, the fire turns orange again. He turns to look at Harry, who stares at him in silence. “He knows that I was there.”

“Does he? And you’re not in trouble?” Harry challenges.

Riddle snorts. “Dumbledore is a fool that believes in innocence until proven otherwise.”

“You’re taking advantage of his trust in you,” Harry retorts.

Riddle rolls his eyes. “Dumbledore knows who I am,” is all he says, and then, he waves his wand, Summoning his Head Boy badge. He presses the tip of his wand—long and pale, Harry has never noticed before—to the metal, and it burns bright for a moment. Riddle fastens it to his shirt and clears his throat. “My room is through there. Clearwater’s is locked. She’s away again for the weekend. She’s applying for a medical program in France.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t need to know where your bedroom is, Riddle.”

“Are you sure?” Riddle smirks.

Harry flips him the bird as Riddle backs away towards the door, his eyes catching on his face, like he’s trying to commit Harry to memory.

“Go do your fucking job, Riddle.”

“I’ll see you in a bit, _ Harry_.”

And Merlin, Harry hates _ (likes) _ how Riddle says his _ name. _


	22. FRIDAY, 11:39PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is nosey, as per usual.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Whatever makes you happy  
Whatever you want  
You're so fuckin' special  
I wish I was special  
But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo,  
What the hell am I doing here?  
I don't belong here.  
I don't belong here."
> 
> Creep, Radiohead

Harry gets bored _ very _fast.

He walks in circles, rounding the Head Boy’s sofa, again and again, rounding in front of the fire again and again. He sighs, glancing from the fireplace and back over to the kitchenette. None of it looks particularly personal. It’s also not what he would’ve expected for Riddle.

Riddle is made for onyx and stone and very elaborate candelabras. But, this is warm and soft, plush purple velvet and dark wood. Harry frowns, and wonders what’s in their ice box. He walks into the kitchenette and has no qualms with opening the cupboards—it’s all quite boring, he’s sad to report. Just tea and biscuits and an assortment of snacks. Harry shuts the cupboard and frowns, turning towards the two doors.

Riddle pointed out his room to Harry.

Harry frowns, folding his arms over his chest.

He knows that Lavender never went into Riddle’s room. She’d made it sound romantic—the fact that they’d fucked in front of his fireplace. But Harry just thinks that it’s rather humiliating, not even being invited back into the man’s bed.

Harry takes a hesitant step forward, curious.

He hesitates, hand hovering over the doorknob.

He doesn’t wait long because Harry has always been _ nosy_, and he doesn’t put it past Riddle to be _ up to something_, because he seems like the type to be up to something, and Harry still hasn’t forgotten their da—_appointment_, where he just disappeared with Borgin, and then _ ditched _Harry back at the castle to go get into a fucking fight.

Harry wrenches the door open and peeks inside.

This is more of the kind of room Harry can picture Riddle occupying.

It’s still rather warm, but there are the Slytherin green sheets and comforter that Harry missed. There’s the big heavy desk that’s probably compensating for Riddle’s tiny dick—_even though Harry knows Riddle’s dick isn’t tiny, because everyone says it’s fucking—_and there’s, strangely enough, an enormous rock in the corner that radiates heat, though Harry isn’t sure what that’s for.

Harry steps past the threshold and feels something warm rush over him. He shivers against it, this wave of magic and sighs before he looks around, tracing the end board of the four-poster bed.

_ What kind of person _ does _ end up in Tom Riddle’s bed? _ Harry wonders.

He steps away from it, refuses to touch the sheets even though they look _ soft_, like one could get lost in them. He ignores the mound of pillows and turns his attention to the big heavy desk.

It’s as orderly as Harry imagined it would be. Riddle has an assortment of books stacked on his desk, all categorized by subject. He seems to be a connoisseur of texts, particularly advanced magical theory, which Harry supposes checks out.

He keeps three black quills on his desk, and there’s a perch for a hawk, though the hawk is noticeably absent. Harry wonders if the hawk sleeps in the Owlery with the others, like Hedwig.

Harry looks over and sees a stack of first year Defence essays, all in chicken scratch, already graded. Harry leafs through them, his lips twitching into a smile against his will as he looks at the essays on imps and bowtruckles. He sets them aside, and his gaze catches on a book.

It’s a nondescript black book.

A _ diary_.

Harry snorts. “Riddle keeps a diary?” he mutters, and without a single moment of hesitation, he picks it up and flips it open, in search for what kind of thoughts Riddle commits to this small black diary.

Instead of Riddle’s innermost confessions, all Harry finds are lists. It’s lists upon lists of _ things_.

“Boring,” Harry sighs as he leafs through the book.

And then, he pauses.

The list is precise and strange.

_ Bundle of Unicorn hair _

_ Sonnets of a Sorcerer by _

_ Mordred’s music box _

_ Basilisk venom _

_ Acromantula silk _

_ Veela scalp _

And on and on the list goes, each with corresponding numbers next to them and initials. Harry’s brow furrows as he goes to the next page, and there are more items, except now, there are notes under each individual item and dates. He checks the latest item, and recognizes the date—his and Riddle’s appointment.

_ Locket _

_ Given by B., bound by UV, paid in gold _

And before Harry can read further, there’s a furious hiss. Harry drops the diary like he’s been burnt and he spins around, staring wide-eyed at the enormous poison green _ snake _that slithers from under Riddle’s bed. Its eyes are enormous and glassy with a frightening amount of awareness in them, and the snake opens its mouth wide, revealing long glistening white fangs.

It spits more hisses at him, rearing its head as it emerges fully.

“Fuck!” Harry gasps as he jerks back, avoiding the darting head and he stumbles from the room, slamming the door shut just as the snake slams into the door.

He breathes hard, pressing his hands to his chest and lets his head fall back against the door.

For a moment, he just celebrates being alive.

And then: “Why the _ fuck _does Riddle have a massive fucking snake in his room?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to let you all know that Nagini is not a Korean woman trapped as a snake. I reject that racist piece of canon :)


	23. SATURDAY, 12:42AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Riddle returns and tea is shared.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "We found each other  
I helped you out of a broken place  
You gave me comfort  
But falling for you was my mistake
> 
> I put you on top, I put you on top  
I claimed you so proud and openly  
And when times were rough, when times were rough  
I made sure I held you close to me
> 
> So call out my name  
Call out my name when I kiss you so gently  
I want you to stay (I want you to stay)  
I want you to stay, even though you don't want me"
> 
> -Call Out My Name, The Weeknd

Harry is back in front of the fire, on the couch, when the door swings open again, some hour later. He pulls his knees closer to his chest and pretends that he’s still not a little pissed about the big ass snake that tried to eat him or guilty that he snuck into Riddle’s room in the first place.

Riddle doesn’t say anything at first, taking his time to shuck off his student robes and shoes by the door, before he turns to Harry, leaning over the back of the sofa. Harry looks up at him, and his expression falters at the _ endlessly _amused look on his Riddle’s face.

“What?” Harry barks.

“You met Nagini. Didn’t you?” Riddle drawls. He’s practically _ grinning_.

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Who’s Nagini?” he asks, almost convincingly.

Riddle laughs softly in Harry’s ear. He’s so close that Harry can feel the vibrations of his laugh, and he pulls his knees even closer to his chest.

“My _ snake_,” Riddle whispers. “Did you sneak into my room, Harry Potter?”

Harry flushes bright red.

“I...uh...I,” Harry stammers, and then, he just decides to glare up at Riddle. “Why the bloody hell do you have a snake anyway?”

“Because I _ asked_,” Riddle drawls and then, he swerves around the couch and sits down next to Harry, slouching down on the sofa.

Harry presses himself to the side, staring at Riddle from the corner of his eyes. Riddle doesn’t seem to mind Harry’s wariness, waving his wand and Summoning a glass and a bottle of amber liquid. Riddle pours himself some and doesn’t bother to offer any to Harry, drinking from it in silence for a moment.

“It’s dangerous,” Harry mutters.

Riddle snorts. “I’m a Parselmouth. Nagini doesn’t do anything I don’t tell her to,” Riddle insists, and then he takes another sip of the amber liquid. “Now, why _ were _you in my room, Harry?”

“How was the prefect meeting?” Harry says, clumsily deflecting.

He ignores Riddle’s rolling eyes.

“Granger and Weasley looked surprisingly sober during the prefect meeting,” Riddle says, and Harry nods, his lips twitching into a smile. He wouldn’t be surprised if the pair had downed Pepper-Up Potions, even if that only promises a _ killer _headache in the morning. “We patrolled for an hour and then we decided on shifts. The professors will be out for the remainder of the night. Have you found Brown on your little...map?”

And Harry pauses.

He hasn’t checked the map.

He hasn’t checked the _ fucking _map.

“I...er…” Harry drawls, letting his knees fall to the side and he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his parchment and then reaches for his wand. He glances at Riddle from the corner of his eye, and Riddle looks back at him, smug and only slightly surprised.

“You haven’t checked for Brown, then?” Riddle asks, pleased.

“Fuck off,” Harry mutters. He stares down at the Marauder’s Map, trying his very best to ignore Riddle’s stare. “_‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good’_.”

Riddle shifts forward to stare as the Marauder’s Map presents itself to Harry, and he makes a soft sound in the back of his throat.

“This...is some of the cleverest, most complex magic I’ve ever seen,” Riddle murmurs. He looks over it, eyes narrowed as he studies the map. “How did they get the Hogwarts plans? Or did they reconstruct it themselves? What surveying charms did they use?”

“You’re seventeen. How much magic have you seen?” Harry interrupts because he can’t help being a little shit even if Riddle’s _ right_. Especially if Riddle’s right.

He flips the map open and starts to scan each floor for Lavender’s name. He still sees a few students out and about, running through the corridors, avoiding professors. He spots Zacharias Smith in Sprout’s office with a few other Hufflepuffs, probably the enablers of the little Hufflepuff event. He even sees Ron and Hermione patrolling on the fourth floor.

“Quite a lot, if you must know,” Riddle says seriously. Harry looks over at him, doubtful. “How does it work then? Is it an enchantment? Is the map connected—”

“I couldn’t tell you how it worked,” Harry says flatly. “It’s a map of the castle and it tells me where everyone is. It’s why I rarely get in trouble when I’m out and about.”

“How did you come across it, then?” Riddle asks.

It doesn’t even strike Harry to lie. “It was created by my father, Prongs, Remus—Moony—, Sirius—Padfoot—and...Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew,” Harry says, whispering the last name to himself, giving voice to a name that he doesn’t use often.

There’s a moment of pregnant silence.

“Pettigrew. The man that—”

“Yeah. _ That _Pettigrew,” Harry interrupts, sharply. He finally gets to Gryffindor tower and he taps his wand against it, sifting through the clump of names and letting out a sharp sigh of relief. “Okay. Lavender’s in bed. I guess she just went back home.”

Riddle nods, like he actually cares and he turns to look at Harry for a long time as he sips his drink.

"I really did just let her down. I believe she understands now," Riddle says.

Harry looks away, frowning down at the Marauder's Map for a long time before he gives a muttered _Mischief Managed. _When he looks back up, Riddle is still staring. Harry’s nose wrinkles.

“What?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” Riddle drawls even though he doesn’t look away. “But...really, why were you in my room?”

“Stop _ asking_,” Harry insists, nearly whinging. “I just...thought you were up to something, and I saw your _ dorky _diary and—”

“Did you open the diary?” Riddle asks abruptly. He doesn’t sound like he’d be upset if Harry said ‘yes’, just morbidly curious.

“Yes,” Harry says. “And then, your fucking _ snake_—”

“Nagini.”

“Attacked me!” Harry finishes. He frowns over at Riddle. “Her name’s Nagini?”

“Yes. She thought you were an intruder. She isn’t allowed to venture out of these quarters, and rarely out of my room. Clearwater is afraid of snakes,” Riddle explains. He stands, so long and tall, and finishes his glass before Banishing it away. He stretches his arms over his head, and Harry briefly admires the long length of his back. “Would you like a refreshment?”

“I...what?” Harry stammers.

“A refreshment.” Riddle is already walking away from him, going towards the kitchenette.

“You can’t possibly have snacks,” Harry says, following him over and Harry leans back against the counters, pressing his hands to the edge before leveraging himself on top of the counters. Riddle pauses, looking over at him with an inscrutable expression. Harry raises a challenging eyebrow.

“I have _ snacks_,” Riddle mumbles like he’s appalled.

Harry snorts. “You don’t seem like the snacking type.”

Riddle rolls his eyes as he goes through the kitchenette, wrenching some of the cabinets open. He throws his hand up, as if to display all that he has to offer.

“I do have friends that enjoy the privacy that the privileges of the Head Boy provide,” Riddle says, sounding so put out and _ teenagerish _ that Harry laughs. Riddle’s lips quirk into a small, pleased smile as he pulls out two boxes of _ candy _from Honeydukes. He rattles them and they sound vaguely empty. “My friends are heathens. I have Blood Pops and Chocolate Frogs.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, lips curling into a smile. “Only vampires eat Blood Pops,” Harry says.

“Then, I suppose Rosier is a vampire,” Riddle says, crossing his arms over his chest as he regards Harry. Harry kicks his feet, his heels hitting the lower cabinets as he makes his decision. “Chocolate Frog, then?”

“And a cup of tea if you have it,” Harry agrees.

Riddle nods. “I do,” he confirms as he grabs for the kettle, fills it with a wordless _ Aguamenti_, and settles it on top of the stovetop. He turns back to Harry, staring at him with curiosity. “Tell me something about your childhood.”

And almost immediately, Harry feels his shoulders curving inward as he tries to ward off the thoughts that come with even the _reminder _that Harry _had _a childhood.

“Why would you want to know _ anything _about my childhood?” Harry asks coldly. “I grew up with Muggles. Don’t you lot hate Muggles?”

Riddle’s eyes narrow. “We have more in common than you think,” he warns.

“Not hating Muggles,” Harry retorts.

“I never said I hated Muggles,” Riddle says so prim and proper, his nose wrinkling at the very idea. He turns to Harry. “I don’t _ care _for them, but I don’t hate them. Hate is quite a lot of energy to waste on a population I don’t particularly care about.”

“They’re human beings,” Harry snaps.

Riddle hums. “Are they?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He seems to catch Harry’s rising temper and he sighs. “Isn’t it a little late for another ideological argument, Potter?”

“Never,” Harry retorts. He leans forward, folding his hands in his lap. “Tell me, Riddle, _ why _do you dislike Muggles?”

Riddle snorts. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

It’s so needlessly childish that Harry can’t help but erupt into laughter, and Riddle smirks as the tea kettle finally whistles. He waves his wand, Conjuring a cup into existence while he uses his magic to Levitate the kettle. Harry watches in suppressed admiration as Riddle maintains the nonverbal spells while moving about. He’d never say it out loud, but Riddle’s magical talents _ were _as great as everyone said they were.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Harry asks.

Riddle pauses as he goes through the cabinets. “Darjeeling or orange blossom?” he asks.

“Orange blossom,” Harry decides. He leans forward, watching as Riddle makes his tea, with a splash of milk—just how Harry _ likes _it. “Are you not going to tell me?”

Riddle hums. “What do you think?” he asks, passing Harry his tea. Riddle takes his own cup of tea and steps back, leaning back against the sofa, opposite Harry. Even still, Harry can’t shake the feeling that Riddle is _ too _close, despite being over a meter away.

“Everyone says that you’re going to be the youngest Minister for Magic in history,” Harry drawls. “Or an Unspeakable. Or another high ranking position in the Ministry.”

“What if I said I wanted to be a professor? A Defence professor?” Riddle asks, his voice very carefully blank.

And Harry just stares at Riddle for a long time. Riddle stares back.

Harry doesn’t think he’s lying.

“That’s...I hope you’re not looking to steal my godfather’s job,” Harry says as lighthearted as he can.

“Maybe I am.”

“Why?” Harry retorts.

Riddle’s brow creases. “Hogwarts is my home.”

And it hits Harry too close. He feels the words in his spine, in his ribs, in his gut, and he nods almost against his own will. He leans forward, sipping his tea again.

“It’s mine too,” he whispers.

Riddle’s lips twitch. He leans forward. “What do you want to be? A Quidditch player?” Riddle teases.

Harry snorts and turns, reaching for the Chocolate Frogs in the cupboard. He takes one, catching it before it can leap from the box and he bites into it savagely.

“No,” he declares. “I don’t know what I want to be.”

Riddle nods his acknowledgment. “You don’t have to know. We shouldn’t really know. We’re only still students.”

Harry lets out a small sound in the back of his throat, because he remembers telling that to McGonagall and the look she’d given him at his Career Meeting—a look that both held pity and expectation all wrapped into one.

“_You _ know what you want to do for the rest of your life,” Harry accuses. “I know that you _ want _ to do something, you want to _ be _ something, but we both know you _ are _going to end up Minister.”

“Why, Harry, I didn’t know you thought so highly of me,” Riddle deadpans, pressing his free hand to his chest.

“Fuck off, I’m just being truthful. I know your type. You want to be important. You want a legacy,” Harry mutters. “But...you’re right. We shouldn’t have to know.”

Harry nibbles on the Chocolate Frog in his grasp, letting his head fall back against one of the cupboards, sighing to himself. He looks over at Riddle.

Riddle is watching him.

Riddle looks at him a lot. It’s the kind of look that strips Harry bare, that looks to Harry and searches for Harry’s secrets, like Harry doesn’t deserve secrets. It’s the kind of look that makes Harry feel naked, and makes the monster in his chest scream, and his bones jittery in his skin. It’s the kind of look that reminds Harry of _ (euphoria) _him at his highest, when he’s on his broom in the sky and spiralling downward in search of the Snitch.

It’s the kind of look that terrifies Harry.

Harry stops, the teacup just at his lips. He takes a deep breath of the orange blossom. Then, softly, he asks, “Why do you look at me like that?”

“I like looking at you, darling.”

And it’s the way Riddle says it, dark and slow and hoarse. It’s the way Riddle looks at him, leaning against the back of the sofa as he stares at Harry, perched atop the kitchenette counter.

Harry presses his thighs tighter together.

“What does that...what does that mean?” Harry asks even though he knows he shouldn’t.

Riddle takes a step closer, staring at him, and the space between them. He looks like he wants to eliminate it, to get into Harry’s space and suck up all of the air around him. Harry isn’t sure if he’d let him or not.

“It means that you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Harry closes his eyes. “You can’t say things like that,” Harry says gently.

“Why not?” Riddle asks.

Harry frowns at him, and takes another sip of tea to avoid answering right away. Then, “Because I’m not so easily convinced, Riddle. I’m not one of your conquests.”

“No,” Riddle agrees. “No, you are not.”

Harry sets his tea to the side and pushes off the counter, landing with a soft thud. He wraps his arms around his body and swallows hard. “You...you said that the halls are being patrolled?”

“Yes,” Riddle says with a nod. “The prefects are out in shifts. I’ll have to go out again soon enough too. And the professors are up.”

“Then...Hermione...they’ll want to know where I am. I have to write it on the parchment to check in. They saw me out,” Harry says, finding excuses, searching for them, because he doesn’t want to _ leave_. He swallows hard as he sees the look in Riddle’s eyes, and he returns it with a look of his own, practically pleading for him to _ leave it alone_.

“So...you want to stay then?”

Of course, Riddle doesn’t leave it alone.

“I—” Harry starts, and then stops, looking away when Riddle smirks at him. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Penelope will be back in the morning,” Riddle interjects. “She’ll wonder why you’re here. We’re both adults, Harry. We can share my bed.”

Harry bites his bottom lip because he doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s here. He can’t own that. And yet—

“Are you...er, are you sure?”

“Extremely.”

“And your snake?” Harry returns, because he still hasn’t forgotten the massive fucking snake.

Riddle gives him a look and marches towards his room. He throws the door open and that same hiss from the corridor before slides out from between his teeth. Harry’s breath catches in his throat again and he shifts as that heat in the pit of him grows again, and he feels his own cock twitch at the sound of Parseltongue. He prays that Riddle doesn’t notice.

Riddle hisses again, and the snake—Nagini—answers, slithering from the room and crawling up Riddle’s body, twining up like he’s a tree until she falls over his shoulders, a heavy boa of sorts. She lifts her head, turning her flat diamond head in Harry’s direction and hisses again.

“I’ve told her that you’ll be in my bed—ah, room—for the night,” Riddle explains. “She thinks you smell quite pretty.”

“Does she, or do _ you _think that?” Harry retorts, hopping off the counter.

Riddle smirks and hisses something at Nagini again, and she hisses back. Harry slowly approaches the pair, eyes caught on Nagini.

“She’s quite intelligent, isn’t she?” Harry murmurs.

“Well, she understands English,” Riddle snorts. He meets Harry’s surprised stare. “She’s magical. She’s a descendant of a Basilisk, somewhere along the line. I found her when I was eleven, and as long as she’s confined to my rooms, Dumbledore doesn’t mind.”

Harry huffs. “One day, I’ll find out what you have on Dumbledore that lets you get away with shit,” Harry warns.

“I don’t have anything on the old man. He just thinks I need a _ mentor _ and _ guidance_,” Riddle spits like curses. Harry snorts into his sleeve.

“_Sure_,” Harry drawls, following Riddle into his room.

Suddenly, he feels washed with nerves, jaw clenched. He hadn’t been nervous sneaking into Riddle’s personal space, but now he was. Harry bites his bottom lip, carefully regarding Riddle as Riddle dips his hand low. Nagini travels down off of Riddle and towards her rock, curling up on the heated rock and letting out a hiss that sounds like a sigh.

“Do you want pajamas?” Riddle asks, smirking over at Harry.

Harry purses his lips. “_No_,” he bites out, climbing onto the bed and climbing to the top, sitting up against the headboard, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ll sleep like this.”

Harry fucking _ hates _sleeping in jeans.

“You’re stubborn,” Riddle murmurs.

“Yup,” Harry confirms, reaching into his back pocket and searching for Hermione’s parchment. He sees some of their conversation from earlier in the day—mostly check-ins from everyone about where to meet up before dinner or for break. His announcement about them joining the duelling club is there too. “We’ll create a barrier too. With pillows. You don’t cross to my side.”

Riddle snorts. “Whatever you want, Harry,” he drawls. “I’ll need to patrol in a few hours or so.”

Harry huffs and reaches for the numerous pillows, carefully erecting a wall before he leans back against the headboard. Riddle has his back to him, rearranging his things at his desk, going through it all, and putting it back in its place. Riddle hisses at his snake, and the snake hisses back.

Harry feels his cheeks grow hotter.

Riddle shucks off his jacket, and he places his wand—long and pale—in one of those pretentious holders that Harry knows that the Blacks have.

Harry doesn’t quite realize what’s happening until Riddle’s fingers go towards his own throat.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat as Riddle turns away from him and lets his shirt fall to the ground. Riddle waves his wand and sends it to wherever his laundry basket is. Harry bites his bottom lip as he stares at the lines of Riddle’s back. He’s thin, but he has broad shoulders and his skin is pale except where he has a spatter of moles between his shoulder blades. Harry swallows hard as he sinks into the pillows, hands folded in a fist in his lap.

He can’t look away even as Riddle walks towards the bathroom, and Harry _ sees _it.

It’s ink that’s scrawled across Riddle’s forearm, a dark skull twined with a snake, but it sneaks up towards his bicep, the curves and patterns vaguely familiar to Harry in the same way Riddle’s pet snake Nagini is. It meets its end at Riddle’s shoulder, an open-mouthed snake that resembles a Basilisk more than anything else. It flexes, moving and twisting on the canvas of Riddle’s skin, eyes flickering towards Harry.

Riddle looks over his shoulder and smirks.

“Are you _ watching _me, Harry?” Riddle teases.

Harry jumps almost violently and he tears his gaze away, his cheeks reddening. “I-uh-_no_. I am _ not_,” Harry mutters. “Lend me a quill.”

He glances down at the parchment paper, the last question in Hermione’s hand—_ Saw you at the Hufflepuff party. Did you get caught? _

Riddle walks over—still fucking shirtless, _ Merlin put a shirt on _—and places an inkwell and quill on Harry’s bedside table before he walks around the bed, eyes still on Harry’s red face as he slides into the bed, still in his trousers, a book tucked under his arm.

Harry bites his bottom lip, looking over at Riddle from the corner of his eyes.

And Harry very carefully doesn’t think as he uses Riddle’s quill to scrawl out: _ I’m spending the night in Moony’s quarters. _

Harry practically throws the quill in Riddle’s face after, like it’s burning. Riddle stares at him, surprised, an ink blotch now on his cheek. Harry _ howls _ his laughter, falling back, shaking at the utterly devastated expression on Riddle’s face, his cheeks hurting from how hard he grins, because it’s stupid, it’s _ so _stupid, but Riddle finally looks his age—like any other seventeen year old.

Riddle scowls. “_Unnecessary_,” he bites out.

“You...uh, Riddle, you have something…” Harry laughs, pointing at his jaw, right where Riddle has an ink splotch.

Riddle glares at him, swiping at his face and he reaches forward, plucking Harry’s parchment for his fingers. Harry makes a sound of loss, and Riddle smirks as he looks down at the parchment.

“This has Granger all over it. Is this a way for you all to stay in contact?” Riddle asks.

“Give it here, Riddle,” Harry warns.

Riddle hums. “Hmmm, don’t want them to know, huh? Why _ is _that?” Riddle teases.

“Fuck _ off_.”

“Don’t want them to know you’re in my bed?” Riddle taunts.

“Fuck _ off! _” Harry repeats, cheeks burning.

“I’ll just respond to Granger myself then,” Riddle drawls. He hums to himself in amusement as Harry dies of absolute _ fucking _ embarassment. “'_I’m so in love with Tom Marvolo Riddle that I can’t possibly leave his—' _”

Harry rolls over and leaps onto Riddle, wrenching his parchment from Riddle’s fingers and tossing it into the corner. “No!” he cries out. “You can’t tell her that. You can’t tell _ anyone_!” He doesn’t even care that he’s practically straddling Riddle’s lap. He doesn’t notice until Riddle tosses his quill on his nightstand and wraps his long fingers around Harry’s waist.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat as he feels the warmth of Riddle underneath him, and Riddle’s fingers tight against his middle. He feels fingertips brush under the hem of his t-shirt, pressing into his skin and Harry's thighs tighten. He shivers, looking down into Riddle’s eyes and Harry doesn't know what to do with his own hands, not when all he can think about are Riddle's big _hands_. Riddle stares up at him like he wants to devour him.

“I—” Harry starts. He can't continue. A keen leaves his throat and he flushes with embarrassment at the sound.

And then, Riddle dismounts him, throwing him to his side of the bed. Harry loses his breath with a loud huff, and he watches wide-eyed as Riddle wandlessly Summons back the parchment and snatches it out of the air.

“_Riddle! _” Harry insists.

“No.” Riddle shoves Harry back. “What are you doing? You’re in my half of the bed. Go back to your half.”

Harry groans as he falls onto his back. He’s exhausted.

He closes his eyes, turns his back on Riddle and pretends that he doesn’t feel Riddle’s burgundy stare boring into his back.

It’s too easy to fall into sleep.

Just. Too _ easy_.


	24. TUESDAY, 8:54AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry hears gossip and becomes even MORE emotionally confused.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> I'ma the be the one, baby  
I'ma the be the one who you let in  
I'ma the be the one, baby  
I'ma the be the one who you let in
> 
> \- Angel in Your Eyes, LSD

Harry’s head pounds as he lays it down on the table in front of him, and he sighs, as he stirs his spoon through the bowl of porridge. He ignores Hermione’s concern, instead listening in on Lavender’s high-pitched, highly-paced morning rant.

“It was just..._ so _embarrassing,” Lavender finishes again, finally finishing her summarization of yesterday morning’s Defence class.

Harry thinks back on it: Lavender’s flush as she stammered her apology for Friday’s behavior, Riddle’s uncharacteristic grace as he accepted her apology, and reiterated that they weren’t _ ever _ going to happen. Harry doesn’t think it was very _ embarrassing_, per se. But, he also can’t say that he was paying all that much attention when he hadn’t been able to even look at Riddle.

He remembers Saturday morning in vivid detail.

Harry remembers rolling out of Riddle’s bed. He remembers glancing at a slumbering Nagini. He remembers looking over at Riddle who looked even more boyish and sweet in his sleep. He remembers Riddle cracking open a single burgundy eye and a mumbled _ ‘Goodbye, Harry’ _ as Harry rushed from the Head Students’ quarters in utter shame.

Maybe Harry hadn’t found Lavender’s floundering embarrassing because he was too focused on his _ own _embarrassment as Riddle had smirked over at him.

“But, you still fancy him?” Luna asks.

Lavender just giggles and looks away as Ron blinks his outrage at her.

“B-but, he rejected you,” Ron sputters, shaking his head. “He _ said _ that he wasn’t interested. He said it was never going to _ happen._”

“Well...everyone was right _ there_,” Lavender mutters. She sighs, leaning her cheek on her hand, and shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter _ anyway_. I heard that he and Bellatrix are considering the idea of making things _ official_.”

“What?” Harry blurts out.

Everyone looks over at him with varying degrees of shock. Lavender looks delighted that Harry has finally gotten interested in her gossip.

“Yes! I heard from Padma who heard from Astoria who heard from her older sister Daphne that Bellatrix was saying that she and Tom might make things official. Remember, he broke up with all of his other acquaintances?” Lavender asks. “Maybe it was for her.”

Harry stares at Lavender for a long time, feels his jaw working. He ignores Hermione’s look, the pursing of her lips. He knows what she would say if she felt she could—_ I thought it was just one date, Harry,_ she’d protest. And Harry wants to say it was, and then he remembers Friday night—

“You’re too good for him anyway,” Ron declares, leaning over, looking so boyish and _ nice _ for a change. “Really, Lavender, you’re too nice and pretty and...er, Bellatrix is _ awful_. They deserve one another.”

Lavender giggles, pressing her hand over Ron’s. “You’re such a good friend, Ron!”

Ron turns bright red and pulls his hand away, tucking it into his lap. Ginny snorts savagely, glancing over at Luna who smiles delicately into her own hand.

“Well as long as you won’t be a mess at the fundraiser this week,” Ginny says knowingly, and Lavender rolls her eyes, sticking out her tongue.

Harry blanches. “Uh. _ What _fundraiser?” he demands.

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione sighs. “Didn’t you see the letter Riddle sent Sunday morning?”

“_No_,” Harry blurts out. “What fundraiser?”

“They’re having a fundraiser to raise funds for the duelling competition,” Hermione explains.

“I’m not participating in _ that_. This is _ temporary!_” Harry protests.

Hermione and Ron just roll their eyes at him. Any appetite that Harry might’ve had disappears and he shakes his head, standing to his feet, grabbing his bag.

“Where are you going?” Ginny demands.

“I need to go to class.” Harry clenches his jaw.

“We don’t have Potions until ten!” Ron protests.

Harry waves him away, stalking away, his brow furrowed as he stalks away. He can feel some of the Death Eaters’ eyes on him _ (he hates that he knows Riddle isn’t there)_, and he slips from the Great Hall, going the opposite way of the dungeons, choosing to take the long way.

Harry doesn’t make it far before there’s a hand—one that grows familiar each time something like that happens—on his shoulder. Harry turns around and glances once up at Riddle before he glances up and down the corridor, searching for any latecomers to breakfast or early-goers to class.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Good morning, Harry. How was the rest of your weekend?” Riddle drawls, his patience dripping with condescension.

“Great! And _ yours_?” Harry retorts with false joy.

Riddle smirks. “Well. My Saturday started rather great, if you must know. I had the _ prettiest boy _in my—”

“Would you shut _ up_?” Harry hisses. “You’re always talking. Do you ever just _ stop _?”

“No.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I hear that there’s a fundraiser,” he says.

“Yes, there is. I just got the approval from Dumbledore on Sunday,” Riddle says rather proudly.

“How does one get away with throwing two faculty sanctioned parties in one term?” Harry asks, part-scathing and part-envy. He leans back into the wall, scraping his hand against the stone to ground himself as he looks up at Riddle.

“Religious practices and it’s a _ fundraiser_,” Riddle practically coos, staring down at Harry. He leans in, lifting a hand that Harry slaps away immediately.

“Don’t _ touch _me,” Harry warns, voice too soft to really mean it.

_ (Don’t touch me_, he says. _ He doesn’t want to admit that he means, _Touch me everywhere.)

“Alright,” Riddle assuages, lifting his hands up in surrender, long fingers twitching like he wants to bury them in Harry’s messy hair, and make even more of a mess of him. “Are you _ coming _to the fundraiser?”

“I’m not going to a fundraiser that will benefit spoiled rich kids that already have more than enough money. If you’re strapped for Galleons, I’m sure your girlfriend could help you out with that,” Harry says, and he’s careful. He’s so careful to keep the bitterness out of his face, but it’s in the twist of his tongue, and he knows by now that Riddle can read him too well.

“I don’t have a girlfriend. Bellatrix is just eager,” Riddle says, and Harry isn’t looking, but he feels Riddle’s fingers brush against the inside of his wrist.

Harry slaps his hand away again.

“Stop it,” he mutters.

“Harry…” Riddle purrs, and Harry shakes his head, breathing heavily through his nose. “Would you really deprive a group in need? A group that you’re _ part _of?”

“A group that I haven’t committed too. This is a _ trial run_, Riddle,” Harry retorts.

Riddle’s charm falls away, revealing irritation. Harry takes pride in the fact that he’s one of the only people in the world that can crack through Riddle’s false veneer and antagonize him this way. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.

“Look, Potter, it costs money to be a part of the competition and we have new members to pay the fees for, and while some of the parents are more than willing to pay those fees, the competition rules specifically dictate that the fee payments should come from publically-raised—”

“Alright, Riddle, alright,” Harry snaps, waving away Riddle’s long-winded explanation. He leans back against the opposite wall, pursing his lips as he regards the taller boy. “I can’t stand you.”

“_Liar_,” Riddle whispers.

And maybe Harry is a liar.

Because he remembers laughter shared over Chocolate Frogs and Blood Pops. He remembers orange blossom tea and teasing.

“I don’t…” and Harry trails off. His eyes go hard. “_Fuck _you.”

Riddle rears back, surprised by Harry’s strong language. Harry pushes off the wall, glaring up at Riddle, arms folded over his chest as he takes a step forward. Riddle falters again, and Harry talks another step forward, glaring.

“I’m not going to play your _ games_,” Harry hisses. “I’m not _ interested _ in your fucking fundraiser. I’m not interested in _ you_, and I—”

“20% of the proceeds will go to werewolf relief.”

Harry swallows all of his protest, staring up at Riddle.

“What?” he whispers.

“20% will go to the werewolf relief fund that Granger is starting. She _ is _starting that, isn’t she?” Riddle asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Why would you…”

Riddle rolls his eyes. _ For you_, he doesn’t say, but Harry knows that’s why. He _ knows_, and it terrifies him. Harry takes a step away, twisting with Riddle so that Riddle has _his _back up against the wall, and even still, he doesn’t look trapped. He looks at total ease.

“If you go, 20% of the proceeds go to Granger’s Fund,” Riddle confirms.

Harry takes a deep breath and lifts his chin.

“Leave me alone,” he hisses. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

_ Liar. _


	25. WEDNESDAY, 7:58AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Tom Riddle makes his presence KNOWN.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Ain't nothing to it, real one  
Ain't nothing to it, boss  
Ain't nothing to it (nothin' to it), real one  
Ain't nothing to it (there's nothing), boss"
> 
> -BOSS, The Carters

They traipse down the stairs early, just the three of them, because though Hermione doesn’t say it—using doing homework as an excuse—she misses when it’s just the three of them. Harry does too. He doesn’t mind his newly expanded circle of friends—he adores Ginny, Luna, and Lavender— but he can’t deny that it was easier when it was just the three of them.

“Do you think they’ll have beans and toast today?” Ron asks.

“Don’t they always?” Hermione asks, her nose wrinkling because she _ hates _beans and toast.

“They didn’t yesterday, so I had to have sausages, eggs, and pancakes. I just want a simpler fare today, don’t you?” Ron asks, looking over at Harry and Harry nods because he’s still fully stuffed from last night’s dinner.

“Maybe just eggs,” Harry agrees. He leans over to glance at Hermione, almost nervously. “Have you finished the Charms practice work?”

“Yes,” Hermione agrees. “I’ve even gotten the vinegar to taste like wine, not only resemble it. It’s quite fruity, if a little dry.”

Ron groans. “Bloody hell, I _ forgot_.”

“Could you help me with it during lunch? Mine always looks pink. We can get vinegar from Dobby?” Harry asks, and Hermione looks at him with pursed lips, as if she’s considering it.

“I have an assessment in Ancient Runes that I’d like to study for during lunch. It’s right after Transfiguration, but if you meet me in the kitchens before dinner, I’ll help you both,” Hermione agrees.

“Okay. We can have dinner with Moony and Sirius too. You can ask Moony about your werewolf relief fund project,” Harry says.

Hermione looks ecstatic with the idea.

Ron groans, shaking his head. “I _ can’t_. I promised to do homework with Lavender.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, grinning over at Ron. “_Ooooh_, Lavender?”

“She fancies Riddle, doesn’t she?” Hermione asks, voice just slightly off. Ron scowls at her, shrugging almost aggressively. “Anyway, ask Lavender to teach you the charm. She’s rather good at it.”

Ron looks ready to argue with Hermione, but he pauses, squinting at something as they finally make it out of the Gryffindor portrait hole. Harry frowns up at Ron, still caught in the middle of a smile.

“Uh...Harry?” Ron trails off.

Harry looks up and nearly collides with Ron, forehead bumping against his shoulder blades. Harry peeks around Ron, and immediately cringes violently back into Hermione.

“Harry,” Riddle says. “Good morning.”

Harry shakes his head. “Nope.”

He briskly swerves around Ron and continues his march down the stairs. Riddle is right next to him, a takeout thermos of what smells like orange blossom tea in his hand. Harry pauses, looks Riddle up and down before snatching the cup from him. He glances back at Hermione and Ron, wincing at their shared looks of bewilderment before he turns back to Riddle.

Riddle looks down at him, lips tilted into the beginnings of a smile.

“Do you need something?” Harry barks.

“Let’s talk,” Riddle decides.

“Harry...is he bothering you?” Ron demands, forever the most loyal of Harry’s friends besides Hermione who doesn’t have to say a word for everyone within a ten-meter radius to understand her _ utter _dislike for the Head Boy.

“No. We’re just going to chat for a minute,” Harry decides, and he turns towards Riddle and begins to walk, sipping lightly at his tea, pretending that this isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened all term. Harry feels the heat of Riddle’s hand against his back before it even lands. “Don’t touch me.”

Riddle raises one hand in surrender, rolling his eyes.

“You missed duelling club yesterday. All of your friends were there,” Riddle says, glancing over his shoulder at where Hermione and Ron are walking a whole flight of stairs back.

“Yes, well, I had things to do,” Harry says snippily.

He, in fact, had nothing to do. He’d just hidden in Moony’s sitting room until it was dinnertime, and then he'd joined the rest of the Defence Squad for dinner. He’d eaten at least a meal and a half to Hermione’s vocal surprise.

“We’ll be paired together,” Riddle says, leaning over. Harry raises an eyebrow. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met that can keep up.”

“Not even your girlfriend?” Harry asks against his better judgment.

Riddle’s lips twitch into a knowing smile. “Are you _ jealous_, Harry?”

“No, I’m _ not_,” Harry snaps, and he knows he sounds _ way _too defensive. He sighs as he stops at the switching staircase as it directs them towards the Great Hall. “I just thought that Bellatrix wouldn’t be very pleased with you picking me as your duelling partner.”

“She understands. It makes sense for us to train together, particularly if we pair for doubles in the competition,” Riddle says, and now, he sounds like it’s less about Harry in particular and more for the good of the team. Harry isn’t stupid enough to believe that that’s Riddle’s only reasoning.

His manipulation is a multi-faceted thing.

“Uh huh.” Harry sips his tea to avoid answering.

“So, you _ are _coming to the fundraiser, yes? Have you told Granger about where 20% of the proceeds are going to?” Riddle asks, quietly. He glances over his shoulder at Harry’s two shadows.

Harry looks back too. Hermione’s squinting at them hard, while Ron mutters questions at her, probably attempting to interrogate her on what she knows. While Harry loves Ron, he wouldn’t trust Ron with a single secret; Ron has a big mouth, and he wouldn’t _ possibly _be able to keep this from Lavender. Harry looks back at Riddle.

“Does your girlfriend know that you’re trying to convince me to come to this party?” Harry asks. “Sorry, _ fundraiser _?”

“So, you _ are _jealous,” Riddle confirms, with his lips tilting into a smile.

It’s a boyish smile that makes Harry’s breath audibly catch in his throat. It shows Riddle’s teeth, and looks far more honest than Harry has ever seen. Harry looks away because he can’t—

“I’m _ not_. You’re just...you’re a spoiled brat who’s favored because no one sees how much of an arsehole you are,” Harry bites out. And then, he can’t stop. If he stops, he’ll look up at that boy who’s still fucking _ smiling _ at him like Harry’s made his day. “You’re annoying, persistent, and _ definitely _not as good looking as you think you are.”

“You think I’m good looking?”

“That’s the _ exact _opposite of what I just said,” Harry snaps.

“Well, not quite. You said I’m not _ as _ good looking as I think I am. So, I’m still _ marginally _good looking, yes?” Riddle asks, lips tilting into a wider smile. A shadow of a grin.

Harry stops on the next landing, and fully turns to Riddle, glaring at him. Ron and Hermione staggers just a few steps behind.

“Ready to go to breakfast, Harry?” Hermione asks, her voice just a little higher. She’s looking at him severely. “Conversation over?”

“Go on ahead,” Harry sighs, and Ron and Hermione walk past them.

Ron very deliberately bumps his shoulder into Riddle’s, the only one tall enough to do so. “Sorry,” he says non-apologetically.

And Harry grins because Merlin, he loves Ron.

He watches Hermione and Ron walk down to the next landing and they linger. Harry sighs and turns back to Riddle.

“I don’t get what _ you’re _ not getting. We’re not...gonna be a thing. You’re cruel and spoiled, and someone perfectly good and _ well-suited _for you wants you. Just be with her,” Harry says sharply. He turns on his heel and goes to march away dramatically.

“HARRY!” Hermione yelps.

Harry grunts as the moving staircase shifts under him and he stumbles over the edge of the slowly shifting magical stair. He reaches back for the banister, but slips even more and he curses as he watches an inkwell slip out of his bag and fall into the depths of Hogwarts castle.

And then, Harry feels two hands land on his hips and yank him back onto more solid ground.

Harry wants to die. Riddle’s hands tighten on his hips as he draws him away from the edge of the moving stairs, where Harry would’ve fell into the depths of Hogwarts, never to be seen or heard from again. Harry hates how Riddle’s hands feel on his hips, his fingers long and strong, and—

Harry wrenches himself out of Riddle’s grip.

Riddle pulls his wand and waves it through a complicated set of motions, and the magical staircase rumbles around them, and seemingly against its own sentient will it switches back to the previous landing it had been at. Riddle stows his wand away, and looks down at Harry, slightly smug.

“This doesn’t change _ anything_,” Harry spits.

Riddle laughs softly, barely more than a chuckle. “Oh, I think it does. Even just a little.”

“_Ugh_,” Harry groans, shaking his head as the moving staircase finally slots back into place, at the landing where Hermione and Ron wait for him below. He charges down it, cheeks scarlet as Riddle’s laughter chases after him.

“I saved your life, Harry Potter!” Riddle shouts after him.

Harry flips the bird in the air, ensuring that Riddle sees his answering response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol this scene is def from Druck, and I just loved it so much, I had to do it to you.


	26. WEDNESDAY, 7:22PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which dinner is had.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "We got a ride, we got the night  
I got the bottle, you got the light  
We got the stars (stars)  
We got audio  
We're gonna fly, we're getting high  
You got the moon dust, I got the sky  
We got the stars (stars)  
We got audio"
> 
> -Audio, LSD

“Sooo…” Sirius drawls, and already, Harry knows that it’s going to be something he doesn’t want to hear. “How was that...the appointment with You-Know-Who? Everything all settled there?”

Harry glares at Sirius over his plate before looking over at Hermione. She looks unimpressed with Sirius’ weak attempt at deception.

“Do you mean Tom Riddle?” Hermione deadpans. She turns to look at Harry. “Is he talking about your date with Tom Riddle?”

“She _ knows_?” Sirius demands. He shakes his head, lips tilted up into a smile. “You really are the brightest witch of your age.”

Hermione snorts. “I’m just not dumb. And I have eyes. He fancies Harry. He even came up this morning to walk him to breakfast,” Hermione says, her lips pressing into a teasing smile. “Ron couldn’t stop asking about _ that _one.”

Harry groans, shaking his head, and digs into his meal with more gusto than necessary. Sirius is grinning at him in utter delight, like he’s just discovered something new to tease Harry about.

“You _ have _ to invite your boyfriend to dinner. I want to play disapproving godfather— _ ‘what makes you think you can date my Harry?’ _” Sirius asks mockingly, his voice deepening. He breaks into laughter, ignoring Remus’ unimpressed stare. “He’s probably the most upright individual on the face of the planet.”

“He’d probably bring a bottle of elvish wine. He’s the type of boy to play it up for the parents, but _ we _all know how heinous he is,” Hermione says. “It’s all very subtle. Professor Lupin hasn’t noticed.”

She looks apologetic as she says it.

Remus pauses. “Well, first, in private quarters, it’s Remus, Hermione. You know that,” Remus says as gently as he can, because he knows that Hermione’s respect for authority is probably at unhealthy levels and she can’t really help herself. He continues. “He’s a very good Teacher’s Assistant. I would have never believed any of those things that Harry said unless it was Harry himself that told me about it.”

Harry snorts.

“You never answered my question. How was your date?” Sirius insists. “Where did you go?”

“Diagon Alley. Dinner. It was...productive,” Harry says, keeping it at that.

Hermione frowns. “But, you still haven’t spoken with Lavender. You _ have _to tell her.”

“Tell her _ what _ ?” Harry demands, looking over at her, probably too vicious for anyone’s own good. He ignores the look his godparents exchange. “ ‘Hey, Lavender, just wanted you to know, I went on a date with that boy—you know that boy that you’re in love with. Sorry about that. Anyway, he won’t be talking to you anymore because he ‘fancies’ me’. _ That’ll _go over well.”

Hermione purses her lips, looking unimpressed and rather annoyed by Harry’s sass.

“How about ‘Hey, Lavender, the boy that you like fancies me. He told me. And I went on a date with him. I’m _ sorry _that I did that to you and betrayed your trust’,” she spits back.

There’s a long moment of awkward silence, and Harry turns pale.

He looks down at his plate and then Hermione’s hand is on his shoulder.

“He, uh, fancies you, huh?” Remus starts nervously. “He told you that?”

“Habibi, I’ll ask you again. Do you—” Hermione starts.

“He’s a _ dick_,” Harry spits, looking up, vicious and angry. He takes another savage bite of his food and crosses his arms over his chest. “He’s entitled. And he’s _ mean _to people, even if he’s only nice to me.”

There’s a pause, and Sirius is looking at him with something soft.

“He’s nice to you?” Sirius murmurs.

Hermione looks thoughtful.

Harry’s mouth flattens into a line.

“_Only _ to me. He was a dick to my friend, and even though he apologized to her, it doesn’t make him less of a dick. And then this _ fundraiser _ shit. He thinks he can just _ show _ up and smirk at me, and give 20% to Hermione’s werewolf fund, and that’ll just _ excuse _ all of his shite? It won’t. He thinks he can _ pretend _ to save me from falling down the magical staircase? He _ can’t. _ He thinks he’s so fucking _ cool_. Do you know he’s not cool?” Harry snarls. “He’s a fucking _ arsehole_. I fucking _ hate _him.”

He doesn’t quite hear Sirius’ comment in between his own ranting: “I don’t think he hates him.”

“He really promised 20% of the proceeds to my werewolf relief fund?” Hermione asks, eyes wide. When she’s met with Harry’s fierce stare, she lifts her hands. “Look, Harry, you've got to go to the fundraiser, then...for the werewolves.”

“_Yeah, _Harry, for the werewolves,” Sirius teases, yelping when Remus pinches him in the side.

Hermione scoots her chair over. “Harry, how did he find out about my werewolf relief fund?”

“He...you’re kinda loud about it,” Harry mutters. “Maybe he just—”

“He paid attention to what I had to say because of you,” Hermione says to herself, almost thoughtful. She turns to him. “Harry, you have to go to the fundraiser.”

“Why?” Harry demands, even though he sounds like he’s whinging just a little. “Why do _ I _ have to go? He has a girlfriend! He can go with _ her._”

“He has a girlfriend?” Remus asks, eyes widening.

“Yes, Bellatrix, _ your _cousin,” Harry spits at Sirius like it’s his fault.

Hermione snorts. “_No, _ he doesn’t. When he’s seeing someone, we all know it, and you’re the only one that’s still listening to those _ uncorroborated _rumors. Anyway, if you don’t—”

“I _ don’t like him!_”

“—like him,” Hermione continues like Harry hadn’t spoken at all, “then who cares if he has a girlfriend?”

Sirius snorts. “Are you _ jealous _of ickle little Bella?”

Harry stares down at his plate. It’s almost empty.

He isn’t jealous, he tells himself. He doesn’t care if Riddle is seeing Bellatrix exclusively. He doesn’t care if Bellatrix is the one on top of Riddle, under Riddle. Harry doesn’t care if Bellatrix and Riddle walk around being tall, dark, and beautiful everywhere. He really doesn’t fucking _ care_.

“You have to tell Lavender,” Hermione says firmly. “You have to tell her that you two went on a date at least.”

“Or what? Are _ you _going to tell her?” Harry retorts.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “No. But, it’ll eat you alive, habibi.”

Harry eats his food instead.


	27. THURSDAY, 12:13PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry tries to make Lavender _see_.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Darling, darling  
Doesn't have a problem lying to herself  
'Cause her liquor's top shelf  
It's alarming, honestly, how charming she can be  
Fooling everyone, telling Hum she's having fun
> 
> She says, 'You don't want to be like me  
Don't wanna see all the things I've seen'  
I'm dying, I'm dying  
She says, 'You don't want to get this way  
Famous and dumb at an early age'  
Lying, I'm lying"
> 
> -Carmen, Lana del Rey

Lavender has the same reaction as Ginny did when Harry first brought her to the kitchens to eat lunch with him. She marvels at it all, staring around in interest as the house-elves darted around, all shouting orders at one another. She’d also been just as charming to Dobby as Ginny was, but that doesn’t surprise Harry.

Lavender can be a little…_Lavender_, with her empty-headed if well-intentioned comments, but she’s still sweet at her core. And Harry could never be friends with someone that’s mean to Dobby, who was one of the first people in his corner.

Dobby who always brought him food when he couldn’t eat in the light of day, only in darkness, like he had to sneak it, like he didn’t deserve it. Dobby had always made sure that it wasn’t scraps but full meals.

Harry sighs as Lavender picks over the salad that she’d requested.

He looks from his peanut butter and banana sandwich and crisps to her salad.

He’s supposed to tell her about Riddle.

But, he can’t. There’s something else that he needs to talk to her about first, even if it hurts him to talk about it too.

“Lavender. Is that all you’re going to eat?” Harry asks.

Lavender frowns at him. “My eating habits aren’t really your concern, Harry.”

“You’re my friend. I’m always concerned for you,” Harry says flatly. “It’s my personality. Hermione says I’m self-sacrificing to a fault.”

_ (Except this is selfish. This thing with Riddle. Harry is rarely selfish. _)

“Well, don’t do that on _ my _account. I ate breakfast.”

Lavender ate maybe two pieces of toast for breakfast. She doesn’t look any thinner so Harry wonders if she’s been binging. He’s noticed that she goes through this in phases. She’ll eat normally for a while, and then, something will happen with Riddle and then she’ll shift back and start picking at things like a bird.

At first, Harry thought it was anxiety.

Then, he realized it was conscious.

“You need to eat something. We’re duelling tonight, aren’t we? You won’t have the energy,” Harry murmurs, and then, he realizes that was the wrong thing to say.

They’ll be seeing Riddle tonight.

“I’m just not that hungry,” Lavender says, but she won’t look at him when she says it.

Harry grabs the bell pepper from the bowl next to them and slams it down on the table between them. Lavender jumps. Harry ignores her expression, leaning over the table to look her in the eyes, clearing his throat.

“Bell peppers are good for you. Did you know that?” Harry asks. He barely waits for Lavender to nod before he launches into his tirade. “It’s 92% water. They are low in calories but rich in Vitamin C and other antioxidants. You need that. And this? This is a sausage. Sometimes, it’s high in sodium, but that depends on how it’s prepared. Sometimes, it’s high in fat, but that’s okay. That’s _ good_. Did you know that it’s okay to eat fats? That that’s _ good _for you.”

“How can it be good for you? It’s fats,” Lavender says, her nose wrinkling. She shakes her head as she looks over at Harry. “You just don’t get it—”

“I _ get _it,” Harry forces out through clenched teeth.

_ ( _ Freaks don’t eat at the dinner table, _ they said. _ Freaks get scraps. _ Iron. Protein. Carb-o-hydrates—_)

Lavender looks at him with wide eyes. She looks like she wants to understand, or that she might be starting to understand that he can. Then, she shakes her head, and smiles at him sadly.

“Boys like skinny girls, Harry. I’m just trying to watch my weight—”

“There’s nothing to _ watch_,” Harry warns. He doesn’t want her to disappear, he doesn’t want her to turn into a slip of herself, into a ghoul. He doesn’t want her to haunt herself, like he haunted himself for so _ long _. “Does this...does this have to do with Riddle, Lavender? I thought we talked about it.”

At least, this time, Lavender shakes her head vehemently. Honestly, she looks a little pissed.

“Harry, I know you think I’m a bit _ boy crazy_—”

“I _ don’t_.”

Lavender continues like he didn’t interrupt, “But not everything I do is about a _ boy_. I want to look good. I want to fit into my clothes. I want to be pretty, and honestly, you insisting that it’s about a boy is insulting.”

Harry winces, and looks down at the table, because she’s not wrong. Harry’s own issues with food isn’t about a boy at all. He shouldn’t assume that Lavender’s does, just because she’s a girl.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I just...you’re gorgeous,” Harry insists, softly. “Lavender, you look amazing.”

Lavender frowns down at Harry’s full plate of food—he hasn’t touched it yet, and maybe he’s a hypocrite, so he shovels food into his mouth just to prove a point—and then she looks back up at him. She sighs, like she’s exhausted.

“Maybe. But, do you hear...it’s like all anyone cares about is what everyone thinks about them. It’s all about how you _ look_, and I want to look good too,” Lavender explains. “I want to be able to talk about how _ good _I look. I want everyone else to talk about how good I look.”

And Harry purses his lips because now he thinks that Lavender _ must _have selective hearing, because no one stops talking about how beautiful Lavender looks. He sighs and pushes the peanut butter and banana sandwich between them. He taps the brown bread.

“Do you know that bread is good for you?” he asks with a sigh.

“Is it?” Lavender asks with nose wrinkled. “Bread makes you fat.”

“It’s whole-wheat bread,” Harry says, voice flat. “Whole wheat bread provides a lot of key nutrients. It’s very rich in fiber, several Vitamin Bs, and even iron. The point is that _ anything _ in excess can make you fat, and also, there’s nothing _ wrong _with being fat, Lavender. Fat people exist, and many fat people live incredible and healthy lives.”

Lavender looks at him like she doesn’t believe him and Harry sighs.

“How do you...know all of that? About the food?” she asks nervously.

Harry purses his lips. “I used to have a problem with food too,” Harry explains, and then leaves it at that back because it’s hard to put that ‘problem’ to words. That problem is more like a story, and he doesn’t want to talk about his tragic fucking backstory, because he’s not looking to whinge about it.

His life is better now.

His life is the best now.

“Look, you can eat ‘healthier’ if you want, but you just have to educate yourself. You shouldn’t starve.”

And he’s finally said it.

He’s called out the manticore in the room, and she looks betrayed.

And that kinda drives his mad, because she has no _ right _to look betrayed.

“You just don’t _ get _it, Harry,” Lavender spits. “People can be so cruel—”

“_That’s _ what _ people _ do,” Harry spits. He trembles with his rage, and wants to grab her by her shoulders. He wants to shake her, to make her understand, because he_ knows_. He _ knows_. “They’ll make promises and they’ll break your heart. Then they’ll _laugh _while you fall to pieces. You think I don’t know? You aren’t the first and you won’t be the _last. _”

Lavender stares at him like she’s never seen him before.

Harry stands fast and hard, throwing the chair to the ground. He stumbles back, shaking his head. “Harry?” Lavender murmurs.

She sounds _afraid_.

She’s never seen him like this. No one has seen him like this except for Ron and Hermione and Sirius and Moony and—

_ Madame Pomfrey_.

Harry backs away, shaking hard, shaking in his skin, shaking in his bones.

“Harry, what do you need?” Lavender asks again, sharp and fast.

Harry turns. Harry _runs_.

He slams through the portrait hole, and grabs at the stone, his stomach caving in on itself. He gags on air, tastes the sourness of it all, and he wants, he wants, he wants. There’s so much that he wants, he wants to gorge on it all, even though he’s not allowed—

_ ( _ Freaks _don’t get _anything_. Freaks don’t _ deserve _ anything.) _

And that is not his name. That is not his name anymore. He has a name—Harry Potter, he tells himself, as he thunders up the steps, each foot on stone heavy, like he’s soaked in water, like there are stones in his robes, in his pockets, and he sinking under and under.

He hears the laughter of Hufflepuffs as they emerge from their fucking Common Room, and Harry knows to move. He wants no questions. He darts into an alcove, falling into the shadows and he slips to the ground, legs outstretched and he _breathes_.

Harry lets his head fall back against the stone wall, wrapping his arms around himself. He breathes hard and heavy and feels the familiar burn for a Calming Draught. He used to drink euphoria, and feel alright. He shivers as the dark place comes to him, spotting the edges of his vision. He needs it.

_ You don’t need it. Not anymore_, he tells himself.

_ (He thinks that he’s lying. He isn’t sure anymore.) _

He wants it so bad.

Harry breathes heavily, and he’s shaking apart. He feels himself unravel, and he wants to take himself apart. He wants to carve himself to the shape of his ribs and fit himself into the hollow that he has found in this castle. He tips his head back and stares up at the grey stone, his eyes stinging.

_ (It has been a long time since he’s cried about this. And he wants...he _wants—)

Euphoria.

He needs it. He needs it more than he has in a long time. He’s shaking apart in the dark and he feels himself falling, spiraling, the world too wide, and all he wants to do is curl in, but the world is _ screaming _at him, and the air feels sharp against his skin.

And he also knows that he can’t.

Harry can’t do it. He knows what he’s supposed to do, what he’s always supposed to do, when he’s starving, when he’s hungry for it, for that _ feeling _ that swells in his chest.

And Harry’s always been a survivor.

He pushes himself to his feet and gasps for another moment before he ducks his head and leaves the alcove. He exits just as two first years walk by and they jump and gasp, stammering at they stare at him. Harry doesn’t look at them long enough to see their House. He stalks down the corridor, practically running to the nearest staircase. He just needs to get to the first floor.

He needs to get to the first _ floor_.

He moves with a swiftness, taking two stairs at a time, shaking and then he only curves around the corner when he gets to the first floor, nearly avoiding the Entrance Hall altogether. He can hear lunch ending, and he just needs to get _ there _ before anyone sees, he doesn’t want anyone to see, he doesn’t want Ron and Hermione to _ see _or they’ll cry and he couldn’t take that.

Harry can’t.

And then, he’s there.

The Hospital Wing.

And there is Madame Pomfrey, waiting for him, as if she expected him.

There’s Remus, waiting for him, as if he expected him too.

And Harry knows what Lavender’s done, what she’d instinctively known to do, even if she didn’t know why, and Harry remembers.

_ (And you’re doing this to her? You don’t deserve her—) _

“Moony.”

Remus stands at the door, right in front of Madame Pomfrey. Harry stumbles forward and reaches out for his godfather.

“It’s okay,” Remus promises, and Harry thinks he means it.

Remus catches him before he falls.


	28. THURSDAY, 4:27PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Miriam Strout speak.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "The boys, the girls  
They all like Carmen  
She gives them butterflies, bats her cartoon eyes  
She laughs like God  
Her mind's like a diamond  
Audiotune lies  
She's still shining  
Like lightning, woah  
White lightning"
> 
> -Carmen, Lana Del Rey

Harry can’t help feeling the tiniest bit of shame when Healer Miriam Strout sets her satchel to the floor and settles into the chair next to his bed. He wanted to do this in an empty classroom, but Madame Pomfrey refused to release him until he spoke to Miriam, and Remus had agreed with her Healing expertise.

He sits cross-legged on top of his bed, drumming his fingers against his kneecaps. He can’t quite look her in the eye—except he has to because he’s no coward.

So, he lifts his chin and looks at her.

Miriam Strout is a willowy woman. When Harry had first met her the summer after his fourth year, he’d thought she was the tallest woman in the entire world, aside from Professor McGonagall, who had also struck him as quite tall. Miriam, in her lime green robes, had been a beacon in that sterile white hall.

_ ( _ I don’t belong here, _ he’d said. _ I’m not crazy. _ And she’d taken his hand and squeezed and said, _ Nobody here is crazy. But everyone here _ is _sick.)

“Harry,” Miriam says. She’s not in her robes. She’d changed or maybe she hadn’t been on call for the day. But, no, if she wasn’t on call, she would’ve been there right away. She’d said to hang tight over the fire call when Remus had called her.

“Miriam. Sorry,” he mutters.

Miriam shrugs. “Why are you apologizing?” she asks.

“I know appointments are supposed to be a week in advance,” Harry mutters under his breath.

Miriam smiles. “You know that _ we _have a standing appointment at any time you need me,” Miriam insists. “Just, you had to wait a little longer this time. I was on shift in the Janus Thickey Ward.”

Harry flinches. The Janus Thickey Ward is on the fourth floor. It’s the only advertised part on St. Mungo’s map. But, if one went _ up _to the fourth floor and turned right at the lift instead of left, one would find Ward 50.

Harry spent a whole summer in Ward 50.

Miriam crosses her legs. She doesn’t wear robes like other witches. She’s a Muggleborn. Remus is the one that thought it would be good to have a Muggleborn because she’d know, at least, what it’s like to be in the Muggle world, and there aren’t that many half-blood Mind Healers either.

So, it’s Miriam.

Miriam Strout.

“Remus said that your friend told him that you had a bit of an event,” Miriam says, leaning back in her chair. She tucks a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. She has _ long _hair. When he sees her, it’s usually tamed back into a braid, a woven rope of black and silver.

“I…yes, she has...she has a problem with food. And I wanted to talk to her about it. But, it was…” Harry trails off, his nose wrinkling.

“Triggering.”

“I _ guess_.” Harry hates that word. He sighs, balancing his cheek on his open palm. “Her name is Lavender. We just became friends this term. And she’s really nice. It’s just...I don’t want anything bad to happen to her. And I know the signs.”

Miriam hums. She nods. “I remember. You told me about your new friends. Ginny, Luna, and Lavender,” Miriam recounts from their last appointment. It was in the middle of October. “I’m glad that you’re expanding your circle and making new connections, Harry.”

Harry nods because he doesn’t know what to even say to that.

“After your episode, are you having any thoughts? Or cravings?” Miriam asks matter-of-factly. At first, Miriam tiptoed around that issue. She wasn’t sure if she should just _ say _ it. She’s since learned that Harry’s approach to all of _ this _is very different.

He’s a matter of fact kind of guy.

He’s not really great with subtlety.

“A little. Not enough to do anything,” Harry says with a shrug. That’s not a lie. “I am hungry though. I didn’t get to finish my lunch because I got upset.”

Miriam nods. She looks over her shoulder and calls, “Poppy? Can we have a house elf bring something for Harry to eat? That little one that’s his friend. Dobby, was it?”

Harry nods and beams at the idea of seeing Dobby. Madame Pomfrey shouts the affirmative.

“I heard that you joined the duelling club. That’s very good, Harry. Different though. I thought you were Quidditch only,” Miriam teases.

“It’s a trial run only. And practices are Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have practice in a little bit. At 5-ish,” Harry says.

Miriam pulls out her pocketwatch, glances down at it. “Then, we’ll be done by 5-ish, then. Is that agreeable to you?” Miriam asks. Harry nods. “I’d like you to eat before you go, though. As for your friend, Lavender, if you’re extremely worried, just show compassion, Harry. Anger isn’t always productive, though you _ should _ allow yourself to feel it. And maybe revisit some of the materials _ you _read when you were dealing with your own eating.”

Harry nods because this sounds like Hermione's advice and he’s always been good at following Hermione's advice if he’s nagged to. He can do this for Lavender. He leans back against the pillows and sighs, before looking back at Miriam warily, his lips twitching. Miriam is trying not to smile back at him.

Harry isn’t even sure what they’re smiling about.

“How have your other habits fared?” Miriam asks.

“A couple of weeks ago, I tried to clean up after Sirius and Remus,” Harry says. It used to feel like admitting failure.

Miriam nods her acceptance. “Did you feel like you needed to or because you wanted to?”

“A combination?”

“As long as you don’t feel obligated. You’re not obligated to clean up after anyone but yourself. And your hero complex?” Miriam challenges, this time grinning.

She knows _ all _ about his showdown with Riddle. She doesn’t know about anything after. So, the fact that his cheeks burn is _ new_. Miriam looks at him, delighted and intrigued.

“Now—”

There’s a crack and she does a very good job of hiding her flinch when Dobby appears at Harry’s bedside, with a plate cradled in his leathery hands. Dobby stares up at Harry with his big round tennis ball eyes and a grin, holding a plate stacked with roast beef sandwiches.

“Harry Potter! Dobby’s friend!” Dobby cheers. “The Pom-frey told the head chef that Harry Potter is hungry, and that he requested _ Dobby _bring him his food!”

“I just wanted to see my friend,” Harry says with a smile. He accepts the plate into his lap and tilts his head as he looks down at Dobby. “Thank you for having us for lunch today. Lavender and I really appreciate it.”

“Miss Lav thanked us before she ran after you!” Dobby insists. He turns to Miriam and very matter of factly says, “Harry Potter is friends with the kindest people. I thinks it’s because Harry Potter is kind himself.”

Harry pauses as he picks up a roast beef sandwich and he looks away.

Miriam smiles. “I agree,” she says gently. “Thank you very much for bringing Harry something to eat Dobby.”

Dobby has learned social cues in the last few years and so he smiles and with a few more cheered platitudes, he Disapparates back to the kitchens. Harry dives into his food and eats ravenously, swallowing the roast beef sandwich without really tasting it.

“Have you thought about exploring any other forms of relationships? Sexual or romantic, perhaps?”

Harry chokes on his sandwich.

“_Anapneo_,” Miriam says, and she sounds almost smug. Her lips twitch as Harry glares at her.

“You asked me that when I was eating on purpose!” Harry insists.

“That’s not true,” Miriam says. “You have a duelling club meeting at 5-ish, according to you. I’m simply allowing you to make it to your meeting in a timely fashion.”

Harry resists the urge to flip her the bird.

“Sure,” he bites out.

“You haven’t answered the question. You’re usually quite straightforward. So, that means...is there a boy, Harry? Does he have to do with your duelling club?” Miriam asks because by now, two years into their relationship, she can read him quite well. She knows his mind more intimately than anyone else—Legilimency will do that to two people.

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it.

And then—

“Tom Riddle?”

He says it like a question.

Miriam’s surprise shows itself only with the slight widening of her eyes. Harry looks down and away, because it’s too much.

“Ah. Really?” she asks.

“Maybe. Sorta. I don’t…know,” Harry says softly.

“And...Lavender? Does she still like him?” Miriam asks.

And Harry knows he shouldn’t lie. It’s stupid to lie to Miriam, particularly because she doesn’t have any stake in this at all. She’s literally paid in Galleons to be on his side. But, it’s still a chore to spit the truth at her.

“Uh...I think? I mean, er, yes. But, really, she more likes the _ idea _of him,” Harry stammers.

“And what idea is that?”

“She thinks he’s charming and intelligent and kind and brooding. That he’s this boy that she can save,” Harry spits like it’s vile.

Miriam’s face doesn’t move an inch. “And is he those things?”

“He’s mean and cruel and snotty and manipulative and full of himself.”

“But is he _those _first things?” Miriam challenges. “Is he those things to _you_? Kind, I mean.”

And Harry doesn’t say it but he feels it at the back of his throat—_Sometimes, _ he doesn’t say. _ Most of the time_.

“But, he isn’t to other people and that’s the point,” Harry says firmly. He eats his roast beef sandwich and punctuates the end of his thought that way, because there’s literally nothing else to be said about Tom Riddle.

Miriam looks like she wants to take another crack at him, but she glances down at her pocketwatch and sighs. “It looks like our time is up. I’ll see you on the 30th.”

Harry looks up, wide-eyed. “So...you’re gonna let me off the hook?”

Miriam smirks. “For now,” she allows. And then, her smirk dies away and she trades it for something softer. “Just…sometimes, it’s okay to do things just for yourself. Alright, Harry? Not everything has to be martyred or sacrificed. You can have things for _ yourself_, and it can be the whole thing. Not scraps.”

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it again, because he doesn’t know what to say that.

Miriam seems to know that because she pats him on the shoulder roughly, and says, “Finish your sandwich. And you’re going to be late for your duelling club.”

She leaves without another word, leisurely, like she didn’t just fuck up Harry’s entire perspective. He nods after her and watches her dip into Madame Pomfrey’s office. Harry redirects all of his attention back to his sandwich and finishes it slowly.

Harry is allowed to have things.

He knows this in theory.

Practice is harder.

He stands up, much less unbalanced than before and he grabs his bag. Madame Pomfrey hovers in the doorway, a fond look on her face.

“Professor Flitwick has excused you for missing Charms, though he expects you to be able to perform the vinegar to wine charm,” Madame Pomfrey says.

Harry grins. “Hermione taught me.”

“A good friend,” Madame Pomfrey acknowledges.

“Thanks, Madame Pomfrey. I’m gonna be late to my club meeting,” Harry says, saluting her as he darts from the room.

Harry is allowed to_ want _things.

He is _ allowed_.

He recites this in his head over and over again as he marches towards the duelling classroom, chin lifting against his own will. He passes by other students who all smile at him. He smiles back at them because even he doesn’t know them, they know him. Everyone knows him.

When he slips into the duelling classroom, it’s clear that he’s late. Everyone is already paired up—Hermione with Bellatrix, Ron with Rosier. Ginny, Luna, and Lavender all stand with Nott, the Lestrange brothers, and Riddle.

Riddle looks up the moment that Harry enters the classroom.

Harry looks away and drops his bag next to Hermione’s before he crosses the room. Lavender latches onto his arm almost immediately.

“Alright, Harry?” she asks, cheerily, but he can see the glint of worry.

“Perfect,” Harry says, honestly, with a smile. “What are we talking about?”

Ginny tilts her head as she looks over at the Lestrange brothers, vaguely impressed. “The Lestrange brothers were telling us about this duel they participated in this summer in an alleyway. Apparently, they won.”

“And you _ believe _them?” Harry taunts.

Rodolphus snorts. “It was in Knockturn Alley, downstairs from Tom’s flat. There are all sorts there, and we’re a rather posh pair of prats. That sort can _ smell _ money,” Rodolphus insists. “Anyway, I cast this _ wicked _ hex that ties your tongue to your uvula and then _ Rabastan _—”

Luna looks far too intrigued as she asks, “Did he vomit?”

Rodolphus beams. “He _ did _.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles. He looks at his other side where Riddle is still watching him carefully.

Harry is allowed to _ want. _

“I’ll be at your fundraiser tomorrow,” Harry whispers, just soft enough that only Riddle can hear.

Riddle’s eyes widen. Harry turns away to look at the Lestrange brothers, his lips curling into a smile against his will.


	29. FRIDAY, 9:06PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the question WWSD is posed.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> ""Hey, bring the drink, come bring the stone  
Hey, bring the rock, come bring the roll  
Forever young, let the good times roll  
Forever young and it don't get old  
Misbehaving, misbehaving  
You got the skins, I'll bring the smoke  
I'll bring the Jim, she could lose those clothes  
Forgive my sins, I'm a saint, God knows  
'Bout to throw some Hail Mary's on them sweet backdoors  
Misbehaving, misbehaving"
> 
> -Misbehaving, Labrinth

“Does this look alright?” Ron asks, posing in front of the long mirror. Harry glances over and raises an eyebrow. Ron is in Muggle clothes, and not the normal sort of Muggle clothes. He looks like a _ Muggle-Muggle_. Blue jeans, a t-shirt, open flannel. Ron winces, suddenly self-conscious. “I’ve just...Lavender likes how Muggles dress.”

“So, you really fancy her then?” Harry asks as he falls back against his bed. He tries to cross his legs, but his jeans are too tight and his skin gets red where the artful rips that Sirius had so _ kindly _created press into his skin.

Ron glances over his shoulder. “I think I really do. Lavender is really nice and _ really _pretty, and she’s actually quite smart, did you know?”

“Good luck with that mate,” Seamus says, walking right past Ron. “She’s way out of your league. Also, there’s a stain on your shirt.”

Ron frowns, shrugging off his flannel violently and t-shirt, revealing his pale, freckly chest.

“Bugger off, Seamus,” Ron barks, cheeks turning red. He turns back to Harry and pretends not to notice Dean and Seamus’ snickering. He’s gotten rather good at that since the whole thing with Ginny went down. He’s come a long way from wanting to put his fist in their throats. “You know why she stopped being friends with the Patils?”

“Got something to say about Padma?” Dean asks as pleasantly as possible, a hint of a threat in his voice.

Neville winces. “I don’t think he _ does_,” he insists, always the peacemaker.

Ron rolls his eyes and continues like Dean hadn’t spoken at all: “Sometimes they made her feel rather dumb. And kinda like she was just the third wheel. They just weren’t all that interested in what she had to say, outside of gossip. She says we make her feel heard.”

And Harry’s lips tilt into a silly grin as he leans back against his bed. “Good. We hear Lavender.”

“Even when she’s talking about stupid _ Riddle_,” Ron mutters. “Do you think she’ll get over him sometime soon?”

“Merlin, I hope so.”

“For my sake,” Ron says. He groans, shaking his head. “I have no chance if she’s still hung up on _ Riddle _.”

Harry swallows hard, because he needs Lavender to be over Riddle too. He _ needs _ her to stop being into him so that he’ll stop feeling this pit every time he looks at her. He needs her to stop so Hermione can _ stop _ giving him that _ look_, urging him to tell Lavender about shit she doesn’t need to know about. He needs her to stop because he wants to tell Ron about—

But, before Harry can say anything, someone says, “Incoming invasion! Put your clothes on!”

The door bursts open and Ginny marches in, flanked by a giggle Lavender and Luna, and the group is rounded out by Hermione who has a hand delicately over her eyes, shielding herself from the possibility of half-naked boys. Neville squawks even though he’s completely dressed and Seamus and Dean both stumble out of the bathroom, eyes wide. Ron _ shrieks _and dives for his comforter, holding his hands over his chest like he’s a Victorian virgin hiding her modesty.

Ginny makes a beeline for Harry’s bed and jumps onto it, throwing an arm around his neck and dragging him down on his back. Harry grunts and tries to sit up but Lavender grabs him on the other side.

“Hello! We’ve invaded!” Luna announces.

Harry groans. “Get _ off_,” and he lightly shoves the girls off as he untangles himself from their limbs. Every straight boys’ eyes are drawn to Lavender’s exposed thighs as her tight skirt rides up higher and higher before she grabs Harry’s sweater from his trunk and covers her lap.

“Why are you _ here_?” Ron demands as he pulls his comforter off his bed and wraps it about himself, looking like a very fat red sausage. “We said we were meeting downstairs at nine!”

“It’s nine-ten,” Hermione declares. She stands in front of Harry, hands on her waist. “You look nice, habibi.”

“Isn’t it the stereotype that girls take longer to get ready?” Luna asks.

“Yes, but we know exactly how much we have to do, so we get started early. Well, except, Hermione. She doesn’t do much,” Lavender says. Before Hermione can even protest, Lavender adds, “Said with love, Hermione, _ promise_.”

Ginny hums as she looks at Harry and then she reaches his face, tilting it every which way.

“Is there a reason you’re doing this?” Harry’s voice comes out distorted as Ginny squeezes his face, pursing his lips. “Ow, that kinda hurts, Ginny.”

“You look really hot, Harry. But...there’s something _ missing_,” Ginny says. She hums. “WWSD?”

“What?” Harry asks.

“‘What would Sirius do?’” Ginny drawls, shaking her head like Harry’s supposed to _ know _that.

“You don’t even know Sirius!” Harry protests.

Ginny scoffs. “Exactly.”

Hermione runs her fingers through Harry’s hair, making it all stand up. Harry groans, slapping at her hand and Hermione tuts. “Your face is looking a little...pale. Have you eaten, habibi?”

“_Yes_, Hermione,” Harry groans. “I’m just tired. I don’t even want to go to this fundraiser.”

“Yes, you do,” Luna says matter of factly.

Ron shuffles around, still wrapped in his comforter, searching for a shirt without a stain. Lavender glances over absently.

“Oh, Ron, you should wear the navy shirt. It’ll look good with your hair,” Lavender says before she turns back towards Harry, eyes wide. She misses Ron’s ecstatic expression. Literally no one else does. “Ooooh, would Sirius wear eyeliner?”

“No,” Harry says sharply.

This is a lie. Harry has seen Sirius have a breakdown if he doesn’t have any more eyeliner.

Ginny looks at Harry with her lips set into a straight line. “We must.”

Harry groans and shakes his head. “Please. Have mercy.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’ll protect you, habibi.” She sits down on the bed, right behind Harry and grabs his shoulders.

“What a waste,” Seamus mutters. “He’s got four hot girls in his bed, and he’s _ gay _.”

He clearly thinks he’s being quiet, but Harry feels Hermione’s hands tighten on his shoulders.

“What was that, Seamus?” she barks.

Seamus jumps as Dean bursts into cackles. “Nothing,” Seamus mutters. He leans in and mutters, “I meant three hot girls and _ Hermione _.”

“_T__itillando,_” Ginny hisses.

Seamus shrieks with laughter, collapsing as he clutches his side.

Ginny doesn’t end the spell until Seamus is nearly pissing and everyone _ else _is laughing too.

_ Including _Hermione.


	30. FRIDAY, 9:37PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which-
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Wait if I'm on fire  
How am I so deep in love?  
When I dream of dying  
I never feel so loved"
> 
> -Trampoline, SHAED

There’s a line down the corridor outside of the Slytherin Common Room, by the time they get down to the dungeons. Professor Snape lurks by the entrance, looking very much like the overgrown bat that he is, while the Lestrange brothers flank either side of the doorway. Rodolphus has a golden cauldron in his lap, overflowing with an assortment of Gallens, Sickles, and Knuts, all donated in the name of the duelling club.

“Come on,” Rabastan commands. “It’s pay-what-you can, but let that be at least, a Sickle. Don’t give me that look, Corner. 20% of the proceeds go to the werewolves. You like Lupin, don’t you?”

Harry snorts as Corner sneers and drops a Sickle or two into the cauldron. Rabastan rattles the cauldron at him in mockery.

“_Thank _you, Merlin, aren’t Hufflepuffs supposed to be generous?” Rodolphus heckles.

“I’m a Ravenclaw!”

Rabastan snorts. “_Sure _you are, Corner.”

Harry exchanges glances with Ron and Ginny and sees that they’re all thinking the same thing—the Lestrange brothers are terrifyingly similar to the Weasley twins. Ron looks like he’s just swallowed something sour at the revelation.

The line moves relatively slowly as the Lestranges continue to heckle with a mild interjection from Snape.

“Mr. Creevey, aren’t you a third year?” Snape asks sharply towards Denis Creevey whose attempted to sneak in behind Romilda Vane and her entourage, including his older brother. Denis flinches and stammers. “Return to Gryffindor Tower or you will face _ dire _consequences.”

Denis Creevey turns white as he turns tail and runs back up the corridor to a chorus of heckles.

Ron reaches out to clap Denis on the shoulder while he walks by. “Next time, mate,” Ron says cheerfully.

Hermione shakes her head, disapproving. “He’s only a third year. Surely he knows there’ll be alcohol.”

“I think that’s _ why _he’s here,” Luna says knowingly. She nods sagely, like she’s there for the same reason.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Hermione warns. “You see Professor Snape there. He’ll make sure that there is _ no _underage drinking.”

“That’s why it’s not fair that _ you _get to drink, Hermione. You’re already seventeen,” Lavender groans. She latches onto Harry’s side, looking up at him with wide eyes as they move forward. “Did you hear? 20% of the proceeds are going to werewolves. Tom—I mean, the Death Eaters are so generous.”

Hermione snorts abrasively, and Harry shoots her a warning look. Hermione rolls her eyes and keeps her gaze trained ahead.

When they finally reach the front of the crowd, there’s still a sizeable amount of a queue behind them. Rodolphus perks up when he catches sight of them.

“If it isn’t the less illustrious side of our duelling club,” Rodolphus drawls.

“A pride of lions and a raven,” Rabastan says cheerfully.

“Eagle, actually. Ravenclaw’s mascot is an eagle,” Luna informs with a charming smile.

Rabastan blinks. “Wait, really?”

“Yup,” Luna confirms.

“Huh. You learn something new every day,” Rabastan mutters.

Snape rolls his eyes so hard that Harry’s shocked that they don’t get stuck staring into the back of his greasy skull.

“Don’t tell me we’re supposed to pay to get into this fundraiser,” Ron groans.

Rabastan snorts. “No, just you.”

Ron scowls, crossing his arms. “Fucking _ snakes_.”

“Five points off for language, Weasley,” Snape barks, being an utter berk as per usual.

Rodolphus cackles, tossing back his head.

“No, you don’t have to pay,” Rodolphus says. Then, he looks directly at Harry when he continues with, “_My Lord _ has said that you’re his _ special _guest. Guests.”

He says it meaningfully and Harry turns his gaze away, refusing to meet it, because he can already feel himself turning red.

“‘My Lord’?” Lavender asks curiously.

Rabastan smirks and taps the bare stretch of wall that leads down the corridor to the Slytherin Common Room. It slides open and Rabastan waves his hand and bows.

“In you go. For the werewolves!” Rabastan declares.

“For the werewolves,” Lavender giggles back and then she’s dancing down the corridor, pulling Harry along as the music spills forward, sounds of thundering bass and brash guitar solos filling the space. He can’t help himself as the music sinks beneath his skin and he feels like he’s vibrating with it. He glances over his shoulder at Ginny and she grins at him. In the dimness of the corridor, he can only see her bright white smile and the flames of her hair.

She rushes forward, linking up with Harry on the other side that Lavender doesn’t cling to.

“Zabini is manning the bar,” Ginny says. “Let’s get fucked.”

“I hope not literally!” Ron sputters behind her, and Ginny brays with laughter, ignoring her brother’s shouts as she rushes forward, dragging Harry along with her.

When they finally emerge from the mouth, the Slytherin Common Room has transformed once more. It’s stuffed to the brim full of upper years, all gyrating to the music with Bellatrix standing atop a table, moving along with it, conducting the chorus of oversexed teenagers.

Harry’s jaw drops and he looks at everyone else, and they’re all staring up at Bellatrix.

She’s dressed in leather, skin bare to the world, her ample cleavage pressed up by a black leather corset, her long legs wrapped in tight matching black leather. Her black curls are wild about her face, lips painted bright red and she’s grinning maniacally as she spins, shooting up bright purple sparks with her wand. Boys crowd the table, staring up at her, like they’re hoping for her—_pick me, pick me_, they radiate.

But, she only has eyes for the Heir of Slytherin where he lounges like a king where he holds court. Malfoy, Goyle, and Crabbe are vying for his attention even as Tom Riddle is engaged deeply with Nott and Rosier. He sipping amber liquor like it's his Merlin-given right like he’s a Goddamn King.

“Holy shit,” Ron whispers, staring up at Bellatrix.

Hermione is staring too.

But, Harry can’t stop looking away from Tom Riddle who looks up at him the moment that Harry looks at him. Riddle stops mid-sentence and leans forward, elbows balanced on spread knees, chin atop his steepled fingertips. Harry lifts his chin and stares at Riddle, raising an eyebrow as a challenge.

“No wonder Tom is with her,” Lavender mutters, still staring at Bellatrix.

“Riddle’s not with her,” Harry says distractedly. He just catches Lavender’s surprised look. “Let’s get drinks.”

Lavender claps her hands together and nods. “We’ll need your _ womanly charms_, Ginny.”

Ginny snorts and nods, linking arms with Harry and the three parade towards the bar. They walk past Tom Riddle in his throne and Lavender looks down at him, her lips pulling into a smile.

“Hi Tom,” she says.

He nods at her. “Brown. Weasley.” And then, he tilts his head as he looks Harry up and down. “You look good, Harry.”

Lavender stiffens. Harry flips Riddle off and then doesn’t say anything else.

“You...you _ do _look good, Harry.” Lavender says it like it’s an accusation.

Harry stares straight ahead and doesn’t say anything until they get to the bar. He looks over at Zabini who pulls away from serving Daphne Greengrass the moment she comes into view. He’s joined behind the bar by one Lisa Turpin, a bartending staple.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite girl,” Zabini drawls. He leans over the bar and Ginny laughs, leaning forward to press a quick peck to his lips.

Harry raises an eyebrow and exchanges looks with Lavender; he wonders when _ they _ got to the point that they can just _ exchange casual kisses_.

“Well, if it isn’t my second favorite boy.”

“Second?” Zabini squawks.

“Well, Harry’s my favorite,” Ginny teases and she leans up on her toes to press a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek. Harry flushes, and snorts.

“_Please, _Ginevra,” he insists. He tilts his head. “As a member of the duelling club, can I request—”

“Unicorn bloods for Ginny and Miss Lavender and Firewhiskey for the Potter,” Turpin says, slamming down their drinks. She winks at their surprised looks. “You pick up a lot when you play bartender at _ everyone’s _parties.”

“How did you not get caught at that Hufflepuff party?” Lavender asks in awe.

“Hid in Macmillan’s trunk,” Turpin grins. She tilts her head, curiously as Lavender sips at her unicorn blood drink while Ginny and Zabini flirt. “Don’t really know how Sprout didn’t find me, but I was there for ages.”

Lavender laughs and turns to Harry, inspecting him again, and Harry can tell that her thoughts linger on what Riddle had just said.

“Harry, are you dressed up for someone?” Lavender asks, like she’s teasing, but also fishing.

Harry snorts. “No,” he says firmly.

“Are you _ sure_? You dressed...really nice. I’ve seen you on a regular day. You dress like a grandpa. Actually...you dress like Lupin,” Lavender says.

Harry squawks. “Moony dresses nice—”

“Lupin dresses like a grandpa,” Lavender says firmly. “Tonight, you’re dressed like Sirius. Sexy. And like...it’s all so tight.”

“Harry _ always _dresses like that for a party,” Ginny insists, forever his savior.

Lavender still looks uncertain, but before she can say anything else, Hermione and Luna arrive, sans Ron.

“Where’s Ron?” Lavender asks, properly distracted.

“With Seamus, Neville, and Dean. And Padma,” Luna adds. She glances over at Ginny, but Ginny is still looking over at Zabini with a nervous sort of happiness. “They’re all staring at Bellatrix.”

“Bellatrix is something to be stared at,” Hermione says slowly. “She is so—”

“Infuriating?” Lavender provides with a wide grin.

Hermione snorts. “One word for it.”

“Hey. Uh, Lavender.”

The entirety of Defence Squad turns as one.

Michael Corner looks cornered.

He flushes and clears his throat as he looks down at Lavender. Lavender looks surprised. She smiles, all teeth, smoothing down her golden curls.

“Michael. Hi,” she says, her voice different and feathery now. She transforms—not quite as much as she does with Riddle—and Harry doesn’t think it’s _ bad, _per se. Just different.

Corner looks pleased and a little like he’s been hit over the head with a Beater’s bat.

“Uh...I wanted to know if you wanted to dance?” Corner offers.

“Yeah. I’ll dance with you,” Lavender beams. She takes Corner’s hand and glances back, winking at the rest of the Defence Squad before she disappears into the sea of people.

Luna hums. “I think I’ll follow her example. Hermione? Ginny? Harry?” Luna asks.

“I’m fine right here,” Ginny says without looking away from Zabini. He grins at her roguishly.

“I can’t let you go alone,” Hermione says severely, like dancing is a chore, even though Harry _ knows _that Hermione can let loose. Hermione reaches over and gingerly takes Ginny’s drink from her hands, taking a large swig before she grimly marches out into the crowd with Luna.

“Guess it’s just us, Ginny,” Harry says even though he’s under no illusion that Ginny will pay him any mind when Zabini is right there. He sips his Firewhiskey and looks out at the crowd.

And then—there he is.

Riddle stands in the middle of the crowd, not shifting to the music at all. Bellatrix has abandoned her table dancing to crowd against Riddle, her arm thrown over his shoulder. She’s teetering in her stiletto boots, whispering in his ear, laughing at something he says back to her. She leans forward, presses a kiss to jaw and Riddle shoves her, shooting her a warning look.

Bellatrix cackles as she teeters back. She glances over at Harry and whispers in Riddle’s ear, pointing at Harry.

Harry flushes, caught staring. Bellatrix taunts Riddle with something before she stumbles away, aiming right for Harry.

Harry grits his teeth as she finally lands at the bar and leans over, just right, her ass high in the air.

“Firewhiskey neat, thanks Turpin,” Bellatrix drawls. She takes the drink the moment it’s slammed on the bar and she takes it all like a shot, tipping it down her throat. Then, she turns to Harry. “He’s waiting for you, Potter.”

“Who’s waiting for me?” Harry snaps.

Bellatrix snorts, still leaning over the bar. “Neither of us are stupid, Potter, and Tom doesn’t keep secrets. Not from me,” Bellatrix hisses. She leans in, pressing her cleavage against Harry. “Now, don’t make me lose my bed partner for _ nothing_.”

Then, she shoves him hard in Riddle’s direction. Harry stumbles, and he’s...he’s already on his _ way. _ He throws back his shoulders, glares back at Bellatrix. She sneers at him, wiggling her fingers, before turning to address Ginny and Zabini. Harry ducks between people in the crowd, slides past Susan Bones and then, he’s there.

In front of Riddle.

“Welcome,” Riddle says.

Even in this crowd, in the thick of the music and noise of bodies, his voice cuts through.

He’s got that kind of voice.

The kind of voice that Harry feels in his gut, in his pelvis.

“So, you’re actually giving 20% of the proceeds to werewolves,” Harry drawls.

“I might be,” Riddle says, almost singing. “I might not.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Dance with me,” Riddle says, offering his hand.

Harry flinches back like he’s been slapped. Riddle doesn’t move, still holding his hand out.

“Ah…Lavender is dancing with Corner. She’s out—”

“I didn’t hear a ‘no’. I heard a ‘Lavender is’. So, enough about what Brown wants,” Riddle drawls. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Harry swallow. “Ah. Er.”

“She won’t notice,” Riddle says, pulling his wand out with his free hand.

And then, Harry takes Riddle’s hand and lets himself be pulled closer. Harry swallows because Riddle’s hand is hot and large, and when Riddle drops his hand, Harry feels that loss. The music shifts and Harry moves to it, lets loose, and it’s a thing—that he should be awkward when he dances. He used to think that he was awkward, until someone told him that dancing is a lot like sex.

_ It’s all in the hips. _

They’re in the thick of the crowd, anonymous and silent as the music pounds. Harry feels the wash of a Notice-Me-Not charm and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Riddle smirks down at him like he knows, like he knows everything about Harry, and his hands fall to Harry’s hips, tugging him closer, slotting them together. Harry tilts his head back, feels sweat slide down his throat, over the bump of his Adam’s apple as he feels Riddle’s knee between his legs.

He feels Riddle’s thigh, pressed tight and even through denim Harry can feel the muscle of his thigh, can see where his trousers are stretched taut and Harry ‘s hands move up Riddle’s chest, where he can feel whipcord muscle through the thin fabric.

And then, they’re rolling hips and Harry gasps as he feels the line of Riddle, hot and thick against him, burning him. His thighs clench down on Riddle’s and he grinds down hard, riding his thigh to the rhythm of the music.

Harry’s _ burning_, and this is more than—this is more than he’s felt in a long time. This is _ euphoria_. This is almost _ there_.

His fingers knot in Riddle’s button-down even though he wants to wrap his arms around his neck and tug him down, wants to feel those lips at his _ throat_. He rolls his hips hard and dares to look up only once. In the strange lighting, Riddle’s eyes look crimson and they burn, burn, _ burn _like war, and Harry wants to binge on it, wants to fill the spaces between his ribs with it.

He _ wants_.

Riddle leans down, like he’s going to press his lips to Harry’s in the knot of all of these people, and Harry _ can’t_—

Harry rips himself away, stumbling back, eyes wide. Riddle stares at him, like he’s startled, before he schools his expression into something harder. Harry folds his arms over his chest biting his bottom lip, shaking his head. He tilts his head to the side and walks away, away from the thumping of the music, and Harry feels the Notice-Me-Not charm dissipating. He can also feel Riddle following him as they go towards the edges of the party.

And it’s still not far enough because Harry can see Lavender bouncing up and down in the middle of the party, Ginny and Luna on either side of her, Hermione smiling at whatever Lavender’s saying, Ron absolutely lovestruck. Harry looks back at Riddle and then continues to lead him away through the exit of the Slytherin Common Room, into the deserted corridor.

And then Riddle is crowding him against the wall opposite of the Slytherin Common Room, pressing his big hands to either side of Harry’s face, tilting his face up. Harry feels all of the lines of Riddle’s body against his and he shivers under him. He can’t see the red of Riddle’s eyes anymore, pupils blown wide and black.

“Are you done now?” Riddle murmurs, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat because Riddle’s mouth is so close to his, enough that their breaths are mingling, and it’s not the chill that makes Harry shiver.

“Done with what?” Harry challenges.

“Done denying that there’s something between us. You want me, Harry Potter,” Riddle murmurs. “You came here tonight because you _ want _me.”

Harry’s eyes narrow, because he’s never taken well to being told what he _ wants_.

“I’m here for the werewolf relief fund.”

“You didn’t dance with me for the werewolves, Harry,” Riddle snarls out, savage enough that it makes Harry jump. Harry huffs out a soft sound as Riddle shifts closer, and he feels Riddle’s thigh press between his legs, against the line of his cock. “You danced with me because you were turned on. You like me. You want me.”

“Riddle—” Harry looks away, turns his gaze down the corridor, into the pitch darkness, the path lit only by the dimly flickering lanterns mounted on the walls.

“Look at me and tell me you don’t want me. That you don’t fancy me,” Riddle demands.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

_ (Lavender. Blonde hair. Sad eyes. Smiles for Harry, every day—) _

And Harry looks him in the eye—looks at Tom Riddle—and tells a lie: “I don’t fancy you.”

Riddle is gone in a second, and Harry loses all of that heat with him. Riddle stares at him for a long moment, and there’s something tense about him. Almost violent, like it’s coiled up inside of him. And then, Riddle turns on his heel and stalks down the corridor, away from the Slytherin Common Room, without another word.

Harry lets out a ragged noise as he falls back against the wall and slides down it, pressing his hands to his face.

_ ( I asked you on a date because you’re beautiful and talented at Defence and you act like you’re not afraid of me. _

_ You don’t fancy me, _ Harry accuses. _ I don’t? _He asks.

_ I like looking at you, darling, _He says.

_ We’re inevitable. _)

And Harry remembers all of those words. Pretty words that he’d pretended hadn’t meant a thing because he can just imagine their faces. Hermione’s disapproval. Ginny’s mockery. Luna’s disbelief. Ron’s rage.

Lavender’s grief.

He can just see it on his friends’ faces, and he needs them to be happy. He needs it desperately and yet—

(_ You can have things for yourself, _ Miriam declares) 

Harry’s allowed to want.

He is allowed to want things. He never _ ever _asks for things.

So, he stands up, pushing himself to his feet, wipes at his face even though he’s not crying and straightens his sweater. And then he follows. He doesn’t know what makes him go up the stairs and out of the Entrance Hall. He isn’t sure why he curves around towards the lake, but he sees Riddle there, staring out across the too-still lake, his arms folded over his chest.

He’s smoking.

It’s strange; Harry never took Riddle for a smoker.

“That’s a filthy habit, Riddle,” Harry calls. “And very Muggle too.”

Riddle looks over his shoulder and sneers, shaking his head. He stalks further away, and Harry falters for just a minute before he continues forward. He’s not going to give up. That’s not really Harry’s modus operandi. He wants to shout at Riddle, command him to stop and fucking _ listen_, but he gets flustered with all he wants to stay, and all he can’t so Harry just yells—

“Tom!”

And it’s the first time that Harry has said his name, and he likes how it tastes on his tongue, how it sounds in his ear.

Tom stops at the lakeside and turns to look over his shoulder at him. He scoffs and continues away from the castle. Harry bites his bottom lip and runs faster, legs pounding through the slick grass to get to Tom before he gets too far.

“Tom!” Harry shouts again.

Tom whips around, eyes narrowed into burgundy slits. “What?” he snarls.

Harry loses his nerve, opens his mouth and then closes it again. “It’s cold.”

They’re close enough that Harry can see Tom rolling his eyes, but they aren’t close enough. Harry wants to touch him, but he _ can’t_.

“What do you want?” Tom asks again. “I’m not a mind reader, Harry.”

“I have on good authority that you’re quite the Legilimens,” Harry tries to joke. Tom stares at him for a long time as if Harry’s a stupid fool, and then moves to walk away. “I like you!”

Tom pauses and turns to look back at him. “Hmmm.”

“Of course, I like you,” Harry confesses like a secret, biting his bottom lip. “But, I shouldn’t.”

“_Why_?”

“I don’t want to like you!” Harry practically explodes with his frustration. “You’re a narcissistic, arrogant prat, and everyone _ validates _your fucking behavior, like it’s okay that you treat people the way—”

“Enough,” Tom interrupts curtly. Harry flinches.

“You’re more than that,” Harry breathes. He bites his bottom lip. “You are…thoughtful. And intelligent. And clever. And kind to me. But, I don’t know…sometimes, it’s like, you try so hard to convince me that it’s an act. That one side is the act and the other isn’t, but I don’t _ know _with you.”

“Maybe neither side is,” Tom says firmly. “I am that I am.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. He turns in a circle, groaning to himself, “This is so fucked up.” And then, he turns back to face Tom who stares at him, expectantly.

He’s staring at Harry like he wants him, like he wants to take him apart, like he needs him, and _ fuck, _does Harry want him too. 

Harry swallows, looks past Tom at something—nothing—in the distance.

"Fuck," he whispers.

Tom looks over his shoulder, muttering, "What?"

Harry takes the step—the leap.

He loops his arms around Tom's neck, stands on his toes and presses his lips to Tom's. Tom surges forward, his hands on either wise of Harry's face, fingers pressing on either side of his neck before he drags them down, grabbing Harry by his waist, tugging him closer. Harry whimpers into Tom's mouth, and Tom laps it up. Harry pushes harder, mouths moving together before his lips part and Tom deepens their kiss.

Harry feels heat run from the crown of his head down to his curling toes, and he shivers in Tom’s grip, fingers running through the short hairs at the nape of Tom’s neck. Tom’s hands tighten on his waist, hard enough to leave bruises, the kind of bruises that Harry craves. Harry doesn’t need a lick of anything else.

Harry tastes euphoria on this boy’s tongue.

Tom pulls back, looking down at Harry, and then presses back in, a soft peck this time, just a taste.

Tom bumps his forehead against Harry's, and then steps back, as if he's unable to take his eyes off of Harry. His lips tilt into a smirk of triumph, but it's softened—Harry knows this man, knows his softness.

Tom continues to walk backwards, eyes trained on Harry’s face, his lips tilting into a small smirk. Harry giggles and they taper off when Tom pauses, his brow creasing. Tom searches in his coat for something, and then, he pulls out his hand, flipping Harry the bird.

“I knew you wanted me,” Riddle declares before he goes father onto the grounds, towards the Forest.

And Harry falls back into the grass and _ laughs_.


	31. SATURDAY, 10:12 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is _distracted_.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Let me know that I've done wrong  
When I've known this all along  
I go around a time or two  
Just to waste my time with you  
Tell me all that you've thrown away  
Find out games you don't wanna play  
You are the only one that needs to know"
> 
> -Dirty Little Secret, The All American Rejects

“That was _ quite _the fundraiser. Very productive,” Hermione declares at breakfast the next morning. She’s a touch too cheerful for the rest of their breakfast party.

Ron’s nearly fallen asleep in his eggs, Luna is hungover, and Lavender had only just peeled herself out of bed, still dressed in loungewear. No one’s even sure where Ginny is, and Harry.

Harry’s staring at the Slytherin table.

He’s not _ trying _ to, but Riddle—_Tom, _ Harry reminds himself—is staring back. Tom’s staring at him like he’d like to strip Harry of all his clothes and lick him. Everywhere. And Harry’s only kissed someone before—a random boy in _ that _ summer before fifth year—and he’s never wanted someone the way he wants Tom.

He wants to be in Tom’s bed. He wants to feel those hands all over him, that mouth, that tongue. Harry shifts in his seat, and his breath hitches over his pumpkin juice as he thinks about that lovely dream that he’d woken up in the middle of.

“Was it?” Harry asks when Hermione looks at him expectantly.

“Yes, I think so. I suppose I should speak to Riddle about that 20% of the proceeds, right?” Hermione asks. Lavender frowns turning her head.

She’s eating this morning. It’s a massive amount of fruit and yogurt and only two strips of bacon, but at least she’s eating. Lavender doesn’t prescribe to a greasy hangover breakfast like Ron does, but she does understand the importance of eating in the aftermath. She swallows her yogurt and granola and blinks.

“Do you get the money?” Lavender asks.

Hermione pauses. “I...yes, I’m setting aside SPEW, as you know, and Riddle said that 20% of the proceeds would go to the werewolf relief fund that Professor Lupin and I would like to establish,” Hermione explains.

Ron frowns at her. “How did he know about that?”

“I must’ve mentioned it during one of the duelling club meetings. I believe I told Rosier. And I’m not very quiet about my causes, am I?” Hermione asks, sounding rather sheepish.

Despite Luna’s hangover, she still manages, “No, you’re not!”

Harry snorts. “Merlin, Luna.”

“It’s not bad!” Luna insists, picking at her waffle. “I think this cause is much more important anyway. Did you know that werewolves are at the highest risk of being identified by Muggles?”

“How so?” Hermione asks, giving Luna the benefit of the doubt.

“Muggles assign them a different name: Bigfoot,” Luna begins, and Harry checks out mentally, and looks back at the Slytherin table.

Tom is still staring at him. Bellatrix is talking to him, about _ something_, but Tom is paying her only a cursory amount of attention. Harry raises an eyebrow and Tom smirks at him.

Harry remembers that smirk from his _ dream. _

> _ ( _ _ He remembers this feeling. He used to feel it all the time. _
> 
> _ Euphoria. _
> 
> _ He doesn’t it taste on his tongue now, but he feels it under his fingers. He’s sitting atop slim hips, big hands on his waist, hot like brands and he’s moving slowly, hips rolling. Harry leans down, panting as hands slide up his back, down over his arse, squeezing. Harry chokes on his breath, moaning as he kisses that long neck wet, tastes that Adam’s apple that he’s been wanting to taste. _
> 
> _ He feels that chest rumble underneath him and Harry’s smile into it because up here, he feels powerful, and he wants to gorge on this feeling. He rolls his hips again, feels his cock like a brand against the inside of his side, feels his own cock get harder. _
> 
> _ And then, a hand on his back, flipping him over, a man between his legs, big hands on his thighs, wrapping them around waist, and Harry gasps, back arching as he whispers that name over and over again as he grinds down. _
> 
> _ Tom whispers, “Be good for me—” _ _ ) _

“—Harry? Harry?”

Harry jumps, blinking wildly as he turns back towards the rest of Defence Squad. Hermione and Ron are looking at him _ suspiciously. _ Ron looks over him and Harry flushes, ears suddenly hot.

“What were _ you _thinking about, mate?” Ron asks, and his voice gets higher at the end like he might guess.

“Uh, er,” Harry stammers, shaking his head. “Nothing?”

Ron’s jaw drops, and Lavender guffaws, staring at Harry like she’s never seen him before. Harry groans and wishes that he could just faceplant in his fucking oatmeal. He glances over at Hermione, but instead of laughing at him, she looks _ disappointed _in him.

That’s probably because she realizes _ who _he’s thinking about.

“At breakfast, Harry? Really?” Hermione chastises.

“I mean, thoughts wander, Hermione,” Ron laughs. He claps Harry on the shoulder. “So, who is it, mate?”

“No one. I wasn’t thinking about _ anything _!” Harry protests.

Ron snorts, utterly disbelieving. Lavender claps her hands, bouncing up and down in her seat. She leans forward and grabs Harry’s hands across the table. She looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Okay, Harry, you _ must _ tell us. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at matchmaking, and maybe if I use Arithmancy, I can make this my project for the end of the semester. The probability of me finding your _ perfect _match,” Lavender gasps. She looks over at Luna and Hermione, her jaw-dropping at her own genius. “Do you think it could work?”

“No,” Hermione deadpans as Luna nods with an immense amount of enthusiasm.

Lavender gives Hermione her most withering stare before she turns back to Harry, leaning over both of their plates as she brings their faces _ way _too close together.

“Come on, Harry. Give me a _ hint_. Who _ is _it? Is it Terry Boot? I hear that he’s gay,” Lavender says, looking at Harry and searching his gaze, eyes narrowing.

“What makes you think Terry _ Boot? _” Harry laughs, shaking his head. “Are you just going to name the gay students here?”

“Well, Harry, I think you know better than to fancy a straight boy. That _ never _ends well,” Lavender tuts.

Harry snorts, gently tugging his hands from Lavender’s. He turns his attention back to his oatmeal and prepares to eat while _ Lavender _ prepares her rant. And then, Harry is saved because there is _ Ginny_.

There is Ginny, wearing what is _ definitely _a Slytherin scarf. Harry glances over at Ron. Ron is horror-stricken, eyes caught on the flashy emerald green and silver as Ginny marches into the Great Hall and sits down at the remaining empty seat between Lavender and Hermione. Ginny grins at them and stretches her arms over her head, her entire back cracking.

“_Hello_,” she drawls.

“Hello. Where the hell were you?” Ron barks.

And for a moment, Harry thinks that Ron and Ginny are going to argue. They’re going to make a scene. But, Ginny seems to think better of it. She pauses and then leans forward, like she’s getting ready to tell a secret.

And then she whispers, “Getting my back blown out.”

There’s a moment of _ utter _silence where Ron turns a rather terrible puce.

_ Hermione _ shatters the silence, throwing her head back and _ cackling_. It’s like something’s been unleashed because _ all _of them begin to laugh, all of them except Ron who drains of all color and just looks green now, as Ginny snickers and falls back into her seat, reaching for a piece of toast.

“Why would you _ say _that?” Ron whispers in his horror.

Ginny shrugs and smirks. “I just answered your question. Now, how were _ your _nights?” Ginny asks.

Lavender leans forward, grinning. “_ I _kissed Michael Corner.”

Ginny and Lavender high-five, both grinning in the face of Ron’s dismay.

“Well, good for all of us,” Hermione deadpans. “After breakfast, would anyone like to go to the library with me? Harry?”

Lavender jumps like she’s suddenly been brought back down to earth and she grins wide.

“Harry was _ just _ about to tell us about the _ boy _that he—”

“And _ I’m _going to go swing by Moony’s. Think I forgot a book there,” Harry says. It’s an awkward lie that literally no one believes from how they all smirk at him, but he ignores them as he steps away from the table and waves awkwardly.

Hermione frowns. “Homework?”

“What was it? Transfiguration essay, right? Meet in the library in thirty?” Harry asks.

Ginny shakes her head. “Better make it forty. I just got here.”

Harry knows that _ really _means an hour, because he knows that it’ll take them forty-five minutes to wrap up, plus another fifteen to fetch their things and finally head to the library.

“Sounds good,” Harry says before Hermione can protest. He swings out from the Great Hall, refusing to look back as Lavender finally tells Ginny what she’d interrupted with her entrance. He flushes at the raucous laughter that follows him.

When he looks back, it’s at the Slytherin table.

Tom is still staring at him, lips curled into a smug smile.

Harry’s so distracted that he nearly walks right into Rabastan Lestrange’s chest.

“Harry Potter. Distracted?” Rabastan drawls, like he knows.

Harry swallows hard because he’s pretty sure that _ all _ the Death Eaters _ know_. Unlike Harry, Tom probably doesn’t keep things from his friends.

“Ah, er, uh...Riddle...and I need to talk to,” Harry says. He straightens, gathering himself up, and looks both Lestranges in the eyes, looking between the pair of them. He ignores Rodolphus’ smirk. “We need to talk. So, if you could let him know that I’ll be in the Astronomy Tower in about fifteen minutes, I’d appreciate it.”

Rabastan snorts. “Oh, you’ll be in the _ Astronomy _Tower, will you? What would you have to discuss—”

“Our Lord won’t like you _ teasing_,” Rodolphus interrupts, casting a quick look at his brother. Harry’s eyes narrow again at that because this ‘_Lord’ _ business isn’t _ new_. “The Astronomy Tower, then?”

“Yes. Fifteen minutes,” Harry confirms.

And as he walks past the Lestrange brothers, he finally lets a _ giddy _smile cross his face and laughs.


	32. SATURDAY, 10:37AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, Harry is a brat and Tom Riddle likes it.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I'll keep you my dirty little secret  
(Dirty little secret)  
Don't tell anyone or you'll be just another regret  
(Just another regret, hope that you can keep it)  
My dirty little secret  
Who has to know?"
> 
> Dirty Little Secret, The All-American Rejects

Harry is under the Invisibility Cloak when Tom finally gets to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Tom isn’t wearing his black blazer. But he’s buttoned his shirt all the way to the top. Harry swallows hard from under the cloak, his eyes tracing the line of Tom’s throat, where that black button is, and he thinks, _ I want to make you undone. _

“Harry,” Tom calls.

Harry doesn’t move, barely breathes, eyes tracing over Tom’s body. He wants to suck a bruise into Tom’s skin. Tom takes another step closer and Harry can’t help a soft laugh as Tom looks around the empty space of the Astronomy Tower.

Almost immediately, Tom’s eyes fall on Harry.

Or what he _ thinks _might be Harry. Harry takes the slowest step back, but Tom’s eyes follow him, Invisibility Cloak be damned.

And then, Tom begins to prowl forward, stalking Harry like he’s prey. Harry lets out another hiccup of a laugh, clapping his hand to his mouth, and Tom grins as he chases Harry up against the wall. Harry tried to side step him, and then, Tom’s hand darts out, grasping for the Cloak, and catching the silvery material between his fingers. He yanks hard, revealing Harry and Harry grins as he’s pressed up against the wall, Tom’s hands on his hips, Harry’s Cloak knotted around his wrist, making it disappear.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” Tom says, voice low and gravelly enough to nearly be a growl.

“Hello,” Harry whispers, squirming underneath Tom.

Tom looks down at him for a long time before he dives in, pressing his mouth to Harry’s. Tom lets his Invisibility Cloak fall around Harry’s ankles and then Harry reaches up, dragging Tom in greedily. He arches up against Tom’s body as Tom pushes him up against the wall, almost violently, and he kisses back just as dirtily as Tom kisses him.

His hands are large on Harry’s face, and then one of them slides down his throat, thumb rubbing Harry’s Adam’s apple, as Tom kisses him, tongues sliding together. Harry groans, grabbing at Tom’s hand pressing it down hard, applying pressure, his breath slipping, catching. Tom pulls back and stares down at him in bewilderment.

“That…” and Tom trails off for a moment before finishing with, “is interesting.”

“I’m an interesting guy,” Harry says cheekily.

Then, he decides that they’re talking too much and he stands on his toes, pressing his mouth to Tom’s again, straining against that hand that tightens over his throat. Tom licks into his mouth, tasting every crevice of his mouth, owning him and Harry likes this; he likes to be _ owned _ and made to take it.

He also likes to give back just as much as he takes.

Harry arches up against Tom’s body, gasping into his mouth and wrapping his thigh around the back of Tom’s legs, grinding forward, pressing his cock against Tom’s and shuddering as he feels his balls tighten. _ Fuck, _he’s so hard. He can feel the line of Tom’s cock through their trousers, can feel it hot and heavy, and Harry imagines it on his tongue, imagines choking on it.

Harry moans into Tom’s mouth.

“That’s a lovely sound,” Tom hisses against his jaw.

“You talk too _ much_,” Harry insists, gasping as he rolls his hips again. “_Always _talking—”

Tom thrusts forward, once, hard enough for Harry to choke on his words.

“Don’t be a brat,” Tom hisses, hand slipping from Harry’s neck to his hair, and he tugs once. Harry’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he shudders, his pants soaked with pre-cum, his cock twitching as his balls draw up. Harry whines softly. “Oh. You _ are _a brat. A brat that likes to be called what he is.”

Tom sounds so fucking smug.

“S-stop, I’m going to—”

“Cum?” Tom asks, thrusting hard again, bringing Harry even closer and Harry whines, leg pulling him in tighter even as he wants to push Tom away. “Are you going to cum for me?”

Harry hums, and finds enough sense to grab Tom by the front of his shirt and shove him away roughly. He pants, gasping for air, that cloying suffocating haze of arousal lifting momentarily without Tom’s body pressed against his. Tom stares at him, long and hard, but makes no move to close the distance again.

Harry swallows, catching his breath, and then he says, “No. I’m not.”

Tom smirks. “You will.”

“Fuck you,” Harry whispers, his lips tilting into a tiny smile. He leans up and frowns when Tom holds him away. “What are you doing?”

“You wanted to stop,” Tom drawls. “We’re stopping.”

“I needed to catch my breath,” Harry murmurs. He lets his head fall back and he smiles up at him, open and wide. Tom stares at that smile hard, like he’s committing it to memory. “Come on. Kiss me.”

“_Needy_,” Tom hisses.

Harry laughs. “Maybe.”

“You want me.”

“_Maybe_,” Harry hisses back, rocking up, chasing friction. He wraps his leg back around Tom’s and dragged him forward until Tom was pressed into the cradle of his hips, their cocks pressed together again. And even though Harry’s cooled down, he moans, grinding forward.

“I know you do,” Tom murmurs against Harry’s neck as he bits down. “You sent the twins to fetch me.”

“Is that what I did? You can be fetched?” Harry snarls. He loops one arm around Tom’s neck, hooking him into place at his neck. He shudders again, moaning right into the shell of Tom’s ear, and he feels the taller man breathe hard against him.

“You _ are _a mouthy brat, aren’t you?” Tom hisses and then with a surprising amount of strength, he slams Harry violently against the wall, attacking his mouth like it’s a duel, and Harry bites at his lip, groaning.

“We can’t tell anyone,” Harry whispers against his mouth.

Tom pauses as he looks down at Harry, eyes scrutinizing. Harry leans up on his toes and presses a hard kiss to Tom’s lips once, twice, three times, and then his head falls back against the stone wall. He relishes in the dull throb, bringing him back down to earth.

“Why?” Tom asks.

“Because no one can find out before I find a way to tell Lavender. I can’t hurt Lavender,” Harry whispers.

Tom snorts, hands sliding down Harry’s back, those big hands settling over Harry’s arse and squeezing it through Harry’s robes. Harry groans, rocking forward, feeling that thigh slide between his legs, pressing against the hard length of his cock.

“Doesn’t feel like you care much for Lavender Brown right now,” Tom drawls. He drags one liquid hot hand up Harry’s spine, long fingers finding their way into Harry’s hair. And then, Tom’s hand tightens at the name of Harry’s neck, and he yanks his hair.

Harry groans, choking on a moan as Tom leans down and drags his tongue up the pale column of his throat, tasting his pulse. Harry rolls his hips, pressing his entire frame tighter against Tom’s. Tom grabs at his arse again, long pianist fingers sliding down the cleft through Harry’s trousers and Harry pants loudly into Tom’s mouth, and all over again, Harry feels like he might cum.

“I...I have to _ go,_” he hisses against Tom’s mouth.

Tom shakes his head. “Do you?”

“They’ll...they’ll be looking for me. I have a Transfigurations essay,” Harry pants. Neither of them move. “Aren’t you the more responsible, controlled one?”

“I want to ruin you.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he just stares. Tom stares back, unabashed and unashamed and _ hungry_. Harry wants so much. Harry wants to spread his legs and have Tom right—

“I have to _ go_,” Harry insists because if he doesn’t, he’s going to give _ in_, and he knows that he can’t just yet. He’s not..._there _ yet, but he’ll give in because Tom wants, and Harry wants, and Harry never knows where the fucking _ line _is.

“If you’re sure,” Tom says slyly. He reaches forward, and his fingertips drag over Harry’s cheekbone, over his kiss swollen bottom lip, dragging it down.

Harry’s lips part—

And then, Harry ducks down, snatching up his Cloak and reaching for his bag. He slips under Tom’s arm and smirks over at him.

“I’ve got to _ go_,” Harry repeats.

Tom frowns, so dangerously close to a pout that Harry laughs. Harry leans up on his toes, pressing one lasting kiss on Tom’s lips before he backs away, one finger pressed to his own lips.

_ No one can know. _


	33. MONDAY, 12:43PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there are secret meetings.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Can't we just talk?  
Can't we just talk?  
Talk about where we're goin'  
Before we get lost  
Let me out first  
Can't get what we want without knowin'"
> 
> -Talk, Khalid

Harry eats.

He doesn’t eat too much, but he doesn’t eat nothing. It’s enough that Hermione stares at him proudly. Harry tries to ignore it because he’s not doing it for her. He’s doing it because he _ wants _to, and isn’t that something?

He finishes his plate rather early and listens in on the Defence Squad’s conversations. He smiles through it because, in this moment, he’s utterly content.

“Have you ever considered cutting your hair too, Luna?” Lavender asks after spending an absurdly long time tugging at her own golden ringlets. Lavender eats too, and it isn't just a salad. It's a start.

“I would, but my father has always said that I resemble an albino heliopath this way, and I rather like that comparison. Wouldn’t you?” Luna asks.

There’s a beat of silence and Ginny nods slowly, like she’s beginning to understand.

“What would your father say _ I _looked like?” Ginny asks.

“A standard heliopath, of course. The red hair,” Luna says airily.

“Me too?” Ron asks.

Luna shakes her head. “No. You’re more of a...Gupling Plimpy, I think.”

“That doesn’t even exist,” Hermione hisses in Harry’s ear and Harry smothers a snort in his hand as Ron pouts in dismay.

Harry glances over at Luna’s strange wristwatch. It’s mostly a mess of moon and stars, but by now, Harry has somewhat learned how to read it, and he’s cutting it close.

“I have to grab my dragonhide gloves from the Tower for Herbology,” Harry declares, pushing out from his seat. No one looks at him strangely; it’s not out of the norm. This is normal.

Ron nods and says, “I’ll save you a seat if you’d like.”

“Much appreciated,” Harry says with a smile and then he grabs his back and leaves. He doesn’t let himself look at the Slytherin table.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

Tom had never even shown up for lunch.

As Harry leaves the Great Hall, he can almost _ taste _freedom. And then: “Harry! Harry, wait!”

Harry resists the urge to scream his frustration, because, _ Merlin _ , he’s so fucking _ frustrated. _

He turns no his heel and forces an awkward smile on his face. “Hey, Moony,” he says, clenched jaw and all. He feels like he’s going to fucking explode.

“Good work today, Harry,” Remus says as he slows down next to Harry and they linger in the Entrance Hall by the stairs. Harry looks up the stairs wistfully, because just up two flights, on the third floor, a boy _ waits. _

“Ah, at what?” Harry asks distractedly.

“Duelling today. You did well, assisting your fellow students,” Remus says.

Harry pauses and his lips twitch into a small smile. They’d finally started to duel in class, which aligned nicely with duelling club. They’d been practicing a favorite of Harry’s—the Disarming Charm. Harry had spent a lot of time working with Neville and Seamus, and he’d had the time of his life.

Until he’d looked over and seen Lavender being assisted by fucking Tom when all of Defence Squad _ knew _that Lavender could cast a fucking Disarming Charm.

“Ah, yeah, it was fun,” Harry says slowly. He waits, takes an awkward step forward, but Remus just mirrors him.

“Do you enjoy teaching? Do you think it’s the duelling club?” Remus asks, and he looks so excited about the very idea that Harry is doing other things besides Quidditch.

“Ah, maybe—”

“Would you consider being my TA, then?” Remus asks as if he’s trying to be sly and Harry’s lips twitch when Remus finally gets to the root of his questioning.

“_Moony _—”

“I’m just _ asking_,” Remus insists. “Tom began preparing to be my TA a year in advance, so I’d like to secure a TA—”

“Moony, I really have...I have to get my dragonhide gloves. I have Herbology,” Harry interrupts, slightly uncomfortable.

Remus’ eyes widen and he pulls out his dingy pocketwatch, glancing at the time. “Oh, yes. Do go on Harry. And sorry about pressing you for an answer now. I just...oh, Harry, you’d just be so good at it. You know that, right?”

Harry’s teeth aches from his godfather’s sincerity, and he can’t help a wry smile. He leans forward, looping one arm around Remus’ middle, hugging him tight once before pulling back. He smiles up at him, wide-mouthed.

“Thanks, Moony.”

“And you’re...well? After last week?” Remus says, finally breaching that _ last _subject. “You had a good session with Miriam?”

“A very good one,” Harry confirms. “I’m good.”

Remus looks relieved. “Okay. Okay, good. I’ll...Sirius and I were worried, but we don’t...it’s _ your _ business, but also, you’re _ my _ business. You’re my _ kid_. My godkid,” Remus amends, and Harry’s expression softens more and more as he stares up at Moony.

“Yeah, I am your kid,” Harry murmurs. He takes a step back, gaze lingering on Remus who only tries his best, and _ is _the best. “I gotta go. But, um...I’ll think about it. The TA thing.”

Before Remus can say anything else, Harry spins on his heel and jogs up the stairs, his bag bouncing against the back of his thigh as he rushes to the third floor. He just jumps onto the next landing as the stairs start shifting in anticipation for the great rush of students that’ll be leaving lunch in just a few moments.

He exits onto the third floor and darts forward, eyes trained ahead as he passes by a stray Ravenclaw; he’s muttering to himself, repeating fourth-year charms over and over again in anticipation for an upcoming assessment. Harry turns the corner and looks around, searching the dark alcoves that line the hall.

“Tom?” he hisses.

And then there’s a hand wrapping around his bicep and yanking him into the darkness of the closest alcove. Harry gasps and then grins when he looks up at Tom Riddle as the older boy crowds him up against the stone.

“You’re late,” Tom drawls.

“Late? All you’re doing is walking me to class,” Harry says, chest heaving. He can feel the heat of Tom Riddle pressed up against the length of him. “By the way, do you have dragonhide gloves I can borrow? I’ve left mine in the Tower.”

Tom rolls his eyes and reaches into his back, plucking out a pair of gloves that are about a size too big, but it’ll do. Harry grabs them, grinning cheekily before he stuffs them into his bag.

“Great,” he says cheerfully.

“_All _ I’m doing is walking you to class? I think I’m also lending you my _ gloves_. Give them back in one piece,” Tom warns. He frowns. “Also, are manners lost on you?”

Harry laughs.

“Well, _ thank _you, Mr. Riddle, for walking me to class,” Harry says, his lips curling into a slow smile. He looks up and down the hallway, searching for any nosey watchers. When he finds no one, he rises up on his toes, pressing a kiss to Tom’s jawbone. He backs out of the alcove laughing, feeling the sun’s warmth through the windows.

“That’s it? I escort you to class and receive only a kiss on the jaw for going out of my way?” Tom drawls. He backs Harry back down the hallway, his eyes piercing and somehow redder.

Harry fights his smile and allows him to do it, twisting back down an even more deserted corridor, one dusty for the lack of use. He reverses them, backing Tom into the wall.

“Don’t _ move_,” Harry breathes against Tom’s neck and then he lunges, dragging his tongue up Tom’s jugular vein, teeth grazing over the throbbing skint here. He can taste the way Tom’s breathing, deep and to his core and Harry drags his hands down Tom’s chest, mapping out the flesh underneath.

“You’re very bossy, Harry Potter,” Tom murmurs, his head tilting back against the wall, allowing Harry more room to work.

“You like me bossy,” Harry murmurs, kissing a path down Tom’s chest, dragging his tongue over the sharpness of his clavicles as he makes quick work of the buttons at his neck. He yanks on the Slytherin green tie.

“I like you good, and you want to be good for me, don’t you, Harry?” Tom challenges.

“Do I?” Harry says breathily. He leans up again, nipping at Tom’s bottom lip, almost hard enough to make it split. Tom groans and grabs at Harry’s wrists, pressing them against his chest, holding him away just for a brief moment.

“You are _ needy_,” Tom mutters.

Harry scoffs. “Fuck off,” Harry hisses back, even as he feels slightly off-balanced at Tom’s words. It’s the second time that he’s said it. He thinks Harry is _ needy _; he thinks Harry needs too much and Harry—“You don’t like it when one of your acquaintances takes charge?”

Tom stares at him with narrowed eyes. All of that playfulness from before dissipates in moments. Tom drops his wrists and instead, presses his hands to Harry’s cheeks, tilting his face up. Even still, Harry averts his gaze, focusing on the wire frame of his glasses.

“Harry,” Tom murmurs.

Harry hums. “Tom.”

“_Darling_.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he looks up at Tom, too steely, too unwieldy to be _ too _vulnerable. Harry always feels angry when he feels like this.

“You are not my acquaintance,” Tom says coolly.

“Aren’t I?” Harry challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Tom sneers. “You’re not,” he bites out. “If I must call you something as juvenile as my ‘boyfriend’, I will. But, you are _ not _an acquaintance.”

Harry lets that linger between them, wonders why that felt ugly. It feels heavy and ugly, and Merlin, Harry _ wants _it to feel ugly. When it feels ugly, it feels real. Euphoria never fucking felt real.

_ (It’s ugly because Lavender—) _

“You like me, huh?” Harry murmurs to himself. “You _ fancy _me.”

“You’re hard of hearing, aren’t you? I feel like I’m always repeating myself with you,” Tom retorts back and Harry scoffs, shaking his head. He pulls Tom’s hands away before they overwhelm him too much and then kisses Tom’s almost too-thin mouth.

“Fine. You’re my boyfriend. I guess I kinda like you too,” Harry whispers, his lips parting into a slow smile. He tilts his head. “You talk about me to your friends too? Like you talked about everyone else.”

“No. But, they say they can tell anyway. Bellatrix calls me… ‘obvious’,” Tom says, nose wrinkling.

Harry laughs.

And then, he stops.

Because Lavender.

Tom’s his boyfriend now. He has to tell _ Lavender_.

He feels that ugly feeling spread wider in his chest, feels his stomach turn just that tiniest bit. He clears his throat and bites his bottom lip, reaching up to grab at Tom’s tie, straightening it back into place the very best he can. He’s not very good at it; Harry can barely get his own tie on right.

“I have to tell Lavender,” Harry murmurs. “We can’t tell anyone until I...tell her.”

Tom’s brow furrows. “Brown? Why?”

“_Y__es, _ my friend whom you _ fucked_,” Harry spits. The knowledge falls over Harry all over again, like it’s the first time he’s learning of it. It doesn’t _ hurt_, but it feels...awful. “My friend who...fancies you.”

Tom groans, head falling back. “Don’t tell me you’re _ upset _—”

“You’re a fucking prick, Riddle,” Harry warns. “I...I won’t be complicit in that. And I know...I know you’ve apologized to her. I _ know _that you told her to back off. But...Lavender gets ideas and she’s very...stuck in her ideas. So, I have to tell her.”

Tom’s eyes narrow.

“Oh. You feel guilty.”

Harry barks out a laugh. It’s a humorless one. “You don’t?”

“I’ve never felt guilty in my life,” Tom says. “I...you have to regret things to feel guilt. Don’t you?”

He asks like he’s truly unsure. Harry hears what he’s asking beneath it.

“Not...necessarily,” Harry says slowly. “Not...I don’t _ regret _this. I just...I have to tell her. I’m going to tell her.”

Tom nods. “More power to you than.”

And then, the bell rings.

Tom leans down despite it and presses one more sweet kiss to Harry’s mouth. Harry rocks into it, tastes Tom’s spit on his lip, hums his happiness there. When he pulls back, he feels flutters in his stomach that have nothing to do with arousal. Tom presses his fingers to Harry’s slightly parted mouth, feels Harry’s breath there against his skin.

They stand like that for a moment.

Harry can’t look away.

Tom doesn’t either.

“I have to go,” Tom murmurs.

Harry looks down, smoothing his hand over Tom’s tie, picking at the silk. “Do you have class? Ancient Runes?”

“I usually have lessons with Dumbledore around this time. Alchemy,” Riddle explains—or it doesn’t, because what the _ fuck, _Alchemy? “I have a few appointments in London.”

“Appointments?” Harry asks liltingly.

“Not like _ our _appointments,” Riddle murmurs. “It’s a job interview with the DMLE.”

“The Auror Office?” Harry demands, eyes lighting up. He smiles. “Good for you. They really want _ you_?”

“The Hit Wizards want me, actually.”

Harry hums. “Hmm seems more in line with your _ talents _. That won’t take long though, will it?”

“I have a few other things in London to do,” Tom admits, and now, he sounds a little more wary. “A few...items to pick up.”

Harry’s eyes flash. “From Borgin?”

Tom looks amused. “_Maybe_,” he drawls.

Harry’s eyes narrow at that. Because Tom is going _ back _ to Knockturn Alley, and Harry can’t think of a _ single _ non-nefarious (he learned this word from Hermione) reason that Tom _ would _be going to Knockturn.

“I guess I’ll see you later,” Harry murmurs. He leans up, pressing a quick kiss to Tom’s lips again.

“Aren’t I walking you to Herbology?” Tom asks.

“Definitely not,” Harry snorts. “Too many eyes.”

And then he backs away, not looking away from Tom. Tom doesn’t move, staring at him with something indecipherable, and Merlin, Harry wants to learn to read him. He wants to know him down to his bones, and he thinks he might, one day. Harry only turns when he gets to the stairs and he almost bumps into a fifth year running to the Charms corridor.

“What are you—Potter?”

Harry vaguely recognizes her as Morag, and he flushes. “Ah, er, sorry about that,” he mutters before he darts down the stairs, keeping his eyes trained in front of him.

He fights against the sea of students as they all clamber up the stairs to their classes. It’s when he passes the Great Hall and sees that it’s empty that he realizes just how late he is. He runs faster, darting through the wide doors and rounding the side of the castle as he races towards Greenhouse Six. He pushes through a pair of third years on their way to Care with Hagrid, shouting, “Sorry!” behind him.

When Harry finally stumbles into the greenhouse, he’s running his fingers through his rat’s nest hair still and biting down on his bottom lip, bruising already bruised lips further. He tugs at his robes and falls into his seat just as Professor Sprout shuts the doors to Greenhouse Six. She casts him a warning look before she turns to the class at large.

“Today’s lessons will be focused on Snargaluff pod extraction. Out with your gloves now. Come on, you lot,” Professor Sprout says when everyone begins to groan. Only Neville seems capable of mustering up the level of enthusiasm that Sprout expects as he dives into his bag for his gloves.

Harry extracts Tom’s, runs his fingers over the expensive hide.

Hermione glares over at him.

“You’re _ late_. What were you doing?” Hermione hisses. “And you look a _ mess_.”

Harry gathers that that means he looks well-kissed. He flushes.

“Sorry. Moony caught me by the stairs and I took the scenic route,” Harry says. He waves the gloves at her, wincing at the look Sprout levels at them. He sinks lower in his seat between Ron and Hermione.

He tries not to look at Lavender sitting over by Parvati, presumably catching up.

“Your collar’s crooked, mate,” Ron provides.

Harry flushes, straightening his tie and collar, and does he very well best to ignore Hermione’s _ knowing _stare.


	34. MONDAY, 6:22PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, guilt is loud.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I've never felt like this before  
I apologize if I'm movin' too far  
Can't we just talk?  
Can't we just talk?  
Figure out where we're growin'"
> 
> -Talk, Khalid

“Has anyone seen Tom?” Lavender asks, looking around at dinner, searching for the fearless leader of the Death Eaters. “I wanted to ask him something before duelling club tomorrow.”

At this point, Harry knows how it goes when Lavender mentions Riddle. Ginny and Luna will exchange looks because Harry suspects that they get the brunt of Lavender’s chatter about Tom Riddle. Ron will look like he’s, honest-to-Merlin, grieving. And Hermione will glare at Harry like it’s _ Harry’s _fault that Lavender is in love with Harry’s boyfriend.

“He’s interviewing for a job,” Harry finds himself saying.

He doesn’t even notice how weird it is that he knows until Ron squints at him.

“Really? How d’you know that?” Ron asks.

Harry opens his mouth to say, _ ‘Because he told me while he tried to touch my tonsils with his tongue’_, and then remembers that, no, that is _ not _something he can fucking say without tearing Lavender’s candy floss heart to shreds. Harry scrambles, eyes darting over to Hermione, but she’s staring at him with wide eyes like she’s searching him for the truth.

“Moony mentioned it,” Harry blurts out. “Something with the Ministry. In the DMLE.”

“That sounds about right,” Lavender says grandly. “They should be _ honored _to have him.”

“I don’t know about _ ‘honored’_,” Hermione says, testily. She’s still _ staring _at Harry.

Harry refuses to look at her.

If he looks at her, he might vomit up the dinner he’s managing to keep down.

“I’ve seen him leaving the castle a lot more this semester,” Luna provides helpfully. Lavender turns her entire attention to Luna. “It can’t all be for interviews, do you think?”

Ginny shrugs. “I heard from Seamus and Dean a few weeks ago that he’s being headhunted by plenty of Ministry departments,” Ginny says. “But, I’ve also heard that he’s a Dark wizard rising, so—”

“Well, that I can believe,” Hermione says. Everyone stares at her in disbelief and Hermione sighs, shaking her head. “I didn’t say that it was a _ bad _thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry asks sharply. “Dark magic isn’t great.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t seem to matter much to _ you _ does it?” Hermione asks almost nastily. There’s a moment of tense silence, and Harry knows that she _ knows_. There’s no way that Hermione doesn’t fucking know, and Harry’s terrified that means everyone else will know too. But, then, Hermione deflates. “I just mean you’re the one that got us into the duelling club. The Dark magic license doesn’t seem to matter as much now to you.”

Harry’s silent. He opens his mouth.

Closes it again.

Then: “It...it still does,” Harry says lamely.

He doesn’t even believe himself. Merlin.

“_Okay_,” Lavender says, raising an eyebrow. She casts a look over at Ron, like she can’t believe them, and he shrugs at her like he’s wiping his hands of Hermione and Harry’s _thing_. “I’m sure he won’t mind if we ask him about his interview tomorrow. Right?”

“The hiring process can be quite personal,” Hermione warns sharply.

Lavender shrugs. “Yes, but Professor Lupin wouldn’t have told Harry if he was all that personal, would he?”

Harry swallows hard and looks away. He pushes his plate back, and he winces when the sound of the plate scraping echoes across the group. Ron looks up, suddenly far more alert than he had been just moments before.

“Harry, you alright there?” Ron asks quietly.

Harry nods. “Yeah...I’m...I’m alright. Just tired of eating. Fancy a game of chess after this?”

And Ron looks like he wants to question Harry, but isn’t quite sure how. It was always Hermione that did a lot of the sensitive, more delicate emotional lifting even though she wasn’t much better than him at it.

“Yeah. Sounds good,” Ron agrees.

Harry presses his chin on his steepled fingers, closes his eyes for a moment.

“You should come up to the Tower tonight, Luna. We can work on our Care essays together,” Ginny says, and Harry thinks he might hear Luna’s agreement.

_ (You have to tell Lavender. You have to tell Lavender. You have to tell—) _

And then, a hand on his shoulder.

Harry opens his eyes and looks at Hermione from the corner of his eye. Hermione continues to eat, sipping her soup from her spoon. She squeezes once on Harry’s shoulder, then pauses. She still doesn’t look at him.

“You’re okay, habibi.”

She declares it, speaking it into being.

“I’m okay,” Harry agrees.

Hermione nods once and continues eating, her hand like a brand on Harry’s shoulder.


	35. TUESDAY, 5:23PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Bellatrix is an asshole.

“A little more aggressive, I think. And quicker. See you can’t hesitate. Maybe try to mumble—yes! Just like that Luna!”

Lavender shrieks as she falls out of her freeze-frame, catching herself on all fours. She lifts her head, glaring over at Harry as she pushes herself back onto her feet. She’s too caught in her self-righteousness to see if Tom saw her fall.

“Oh? Just like that, then, Harry?” Lavender demands. Harry winces as Luna beams, proud of herself. Lavender huffs as she straightens her skin and crosses her arms over her chest. Very grudgingly, Lavender continues with a, “Good Impedimenta Jinx, Luna.”

“Thanks! I’ve been practicing!” Luna laughs.

“You’ve been practicing? On who?” Harry asks.

Luna’s nose wrinkles. “These seventh years tried to take my shoes. They won’t be trying anymore.”

Harry’s eyes harden. “Next time you run into any trouble, you let me know, alright, Luna?”

Luna rolls her eyes.

“I can take care of myself, Harry, but sure,” she says with a small smile, patting him on his cheek. Even with her wide childlike eyes, he’s the one that feels like a first-year out of the pair of them. He thinks it’s the wisdom that lingers at the corners of her eyes.

Harry’s lips quirk at the corners. “Okay. If you’re sure,” he allows, and then, he claps his hands. “Okay, again. Go again.”

Lavender groans. “I’m tired of _ tripping_.”

“Then try _ harder_,” Harry sings back at her. Lavender shoves him playfully and he catches her, dragging her in for a hug, laughing into her hair. She glares up at him playfully and Harry sighs. “You’ll get it, Lavender. But, I’m being serious. Just...try a _ little _harder. And then, we can move on to something new.”

“Why don’t you ever have to practice?” Lavender asks.

“Because he already knows it,” Ron says, distracted from where he’s on a break after losing to Nott for the third time in a row. He’s caught between paying Harry, Luna, and Lavender his attention and watching Hermione as she duels Rosier. “She’s brilliant, isn’t she?”

And Hermione is.

She’s a little frazzled looking, her puff coming free from atop her head, but she’s going back and forth with Rosier, keeping him on his toes. Rosier looks absolutely delighted by her as she ducks a nasty little jinx and returns with Ginny’s famed Bat Bogey Hex.

“That was brilliant. Will you teach that to me?” Rosier asks.

Hermione looks startled by Rosier’s flattery and she squints at him, hard. Harry snorts and looks over at Tom. Tom is watching him, raising an eyebrow as he very slowly looks him up and down. Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he looks away, redirecting his gaze back at Rosier and Hermione’s duel.

“You two keep practicing,” Harry says distractedly as he glances past the duelling platform at the Lestranges and Bellatrix where they’re attempting the Blinding Curse. He creeps forward and hesitantly offers his thoughts. “I think the reason you’re not...getting it, is because you aren’t going at it from the right angle.”

Bellatrix looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. “What?” she barks out, three shades too aggressive.

Harry flushes. “Er…it’s a tricky curse because it has to be angled correctly. Towards the eyes, and the wand movement is jerky. So, the wand position has to be just—” and Harry reaches forward, redirecting Bellatrix’s wand just enough, just slightly off-center. “Try again.”

Bellatrix scoffs, sneering down at Harry, but she hisses, “_Exoculo_,” anyway.

The jet of vicious orange light lands right between Rabastan’s eyes and he jerks back, hand clapping to his face.

“Merlin’s mother_ fucking _ ballsack, that fucking _ hurt_, Trixie!” Rabastan snarls.

Bellatrix growls. “Don’t _ call_—”

“Dampen his other senses,” Harry barks an interruption, but when Bellatrix doesn’t move fast enough, he whips out his wand and growls. “_Muffliato_.”

Rabastan jerks and he opens his mouth. “I can’t…my—”

“_Silencio_,” Harry finishes, and Rabastan’s voice dies in his throat, rendering him temporarily deaf, blind, and mute. Harry takes a step back, nodding to himself. “There. He’s finished.”

Bellatrix stares at Harry for a long time, eyes narrowing on his face. It’s long enough that Harry squirms uncomfortably. Harry briefly hears Rodolphus murmuring the countercurses, freeing his brother from Harry’s binds.

“Well _ done, _Potter,” she drawls.

“Yeah, well fucking done, Merlin, Potter, you’re just like _ him_,” Rabastan sneers, pointing viciously at Tom where he’s watching with blatant amusement.

“You should take as a compliment, Harry. I’m rather good at what I do,” Tom says, pompous as ever.

Harry rolls his eyes and snorts. “Alright, Riddle,” he drawls, before he turns to Rabastan and Rodolphus. “You get what I’m saying though, right? About the spell.”

Rodolphus looks thoughtful. “Yeah...yeah,” he mutters. “You know, you really are quite good, Potter. I didn’t...expect it.”

“Didn’t you?” Bellatrix asks nastily. “Tom wouldn’t stop going _ on _ and _ on _about it.”

Tom’s eyes narrow. “Bellatrix…” he warns.

But, she doesn’t back down, turning fully to look at Harry now. “_We _should duel, Potter. See what you’re really made of.”

“Bellatrix, why are you always instigating _ trouble _?” Tom barks.

Rodolphus winces. “Merlin, this is just like Knockturn…” he begins, but he stops when Tom shoots a look at him.

Harry perks up because _ Knockturn Alley _—

“I don’t want to duel you,” Harry mutters.

“Why not?” Bellatrix asks, louder now, drawing the attention of the others. Rosier and Hermione are taking a breather and Lavender and Luna have stopped working. Ron and Ginny pause in the middle of their chat, looking over as Bellatrix challenges Harry. “We should _ duel _.”

“Bellatrix, _ enough_,” Tom snarls, hard enough to make Bellatrix _ flinch_.

And still, she doesn’t _ stop_. She rolls up her sleeves, and for a moment, Harry catches a glimpse of black ink on her left forearm.

“Come _ on_, Potter, _ scared_?” she taunts.

“No...I’m not scared,” Harry says slowly, because he really, really isn’t, but he knows...he knows this isn’t about who’s better.

This is about _ Tom_.

“Why not, then?”

“Because it would be more than just a duel,” Harry says firmly. “You’d take it personally.”

“What do you mean too personal?”

And Bellatrix asks it so snidely that Harry knows that she _ definitely _ knows. He opens his mouth to respond and then closes it, because he can’t acknowledge her words or the truth in his. Lavender isn’t really paying attention, but Hermione is. She’s paying _ far _too close attention, and she’s staring at him meaningfully. Harry knows that he’s lucky that she hasn’t pulled him aside yet and demanded the truth of him.

So, Harry leans back against the duelling platform and shakes his head. “If you need to fight someone, I’m not going to be the person to give it to you,” Harry says firmly.

And while it sounds mature, he knows that it’s his own cowardice that’s stopping him.

He’s never felt less like a fucking Gryffindor.

Bellatrix lifts her chin like she’s won.

“Fine,” she sings before she turns on her heel and flounces away, tossing her curls with each step. She jumps up onto the duelling platform to sit between the Lestranges, too smug for her own good.

Harry’s nose wrinkles.

“Are you okay, habibi?” Hermione asks as she slides into the spot next to him.

“I’m fine,” Harry says shortly. He turns away as Tom climbs onto the duelling platform, looking around. He doesn’t have to say much for everyone to fall silent.

“Today was a good practice. Thursday, we’ll be meeting during break—” Tom begins.

“_Why_?” Ron whines, and Harry winces as Tom tosses him an unimpressed stare.

“Because of prior engagements,” Tom says in short, clipped sentences. He turns away from Ron to address the group at large again. “As I was saying before I was...interrupted, we’ll be meeting during break tomorrow for an abridged practice. Tomorrow, we’ll be doing more structured duels. Harry and I will demonstrate.”

“Oh, will we, Riddle?” Harry challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Tom smirks. “Yes. So, brush up on your duelling etiquette, _ Potter _.”

Harry can’t help the small, mean smile that spreads across his face and he crosses his arms, snorting. Tom turns back to the room at large again.

“Weasley—Girl Weasley—I’ll be pairing you with Bellatrix. Brown, you’re with Rabastan. Luna with Rodolphus. Rosier with Granger again. Nott with Other Weasley. Meeting adjourned.” And then Tom leaps off the duelling platform, heading straight for his Death Eaters.

“Ugh, why am I ‘Other’ Weasley?” Ron demands as he grabs his overcloak and bag.

“Just be glad you’re not ‘Lesser’ Weasley, which suits you much better. Honestly, I think Riddle was being kind,” Ginny taunts, and she laughs as she ducks Ron’s swipe at her head.

Harry rolls his eyes and turns away to look over at Hermione.

“You had a good duel today,” Harry compliments.

Hermione looks less than impressed as she looks through her notes. She leans in and then says, softly, “Habibi...you’re not hiding it as well as you think you are.”

Harry freezes. Hermione nudges his shoulder with her forehead, but says nothing else as she straightens again and then grabs her bag.

“Hermione—”

“Go get your bag so we can get dinner,” Hermione commands.

Harry sighs, nodding, and he crosses to the other side of the room by the cluster of Death Eaters that have splintered again. The Lestranges and Rosier are standing by Harry’s bag, mumbling to one another.

“I counted—last shipment fetched an even 600 Galleons,” Rosier murmurs. He tilts his head and leans back against the wall.

“And we’re still in the red? He won’t like that,” Rabastan mutters.

“We’re not in the red. Just…we have an allocated amount of funds for certain things, and Igor still owes him his money. _ He _ gets his money and then, we’ll be in the black. We can cover the bets. He just...he spent all that damn money on the locket,” Rodolphus whispers back.

Rosier snorts. “You know why. And it wasn’t _ just _that. He’s keeping Borgin off his back—” and then Rosier looks up sharply, right into Harry’s eyes.

Harry winces as he ducks his head and grabs his bag, his head spinning with the information that he’d just overheard.

“Alright there, Potter?” Rodolphus asks carefully.

Harry looks over at them and shrugs a shoulder. He glances at Tom who’s in a cluster with Nott and Bellatrix, going over something about the duelling club.

“Yeah...I’m fine. I just...forgot my bag. And needed to talk to Tom—ah, Riddle—but it’s not that important,” Harry stammers. He grabs his bag and leaves with a haphazard. “Uh, bye.”

Harry ducks his head and meets Hermione at the doorway. The rest of Defence Squad is further down the corridor, waiting and joking around.

“Harry?” Hermione asks uncertainly.

Harry glances over his shoulder at Tom. This time Tom _ does _look up. His lips twitch as he looks at Harry and he nods at him. Harry can’t help his grin and he rolls his eyes as he leaves the room. He looks back over at Hermione and she looks more thoughtful now.

“What?” Harry demands.

Hermione hums. “I...you like him. A lot.”

Harry swallows hard. “I...do,” he whispers.

Hermione sighs, like she’s exhausted. She looks like she’s gearing up to lecture him, but then she shakes her head, hooks their arms together and says, “Okay, habibi. Okay.”


	36. THURSDAY, 10:42AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry tries to come clean.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "So you're a tough guy  
Like it really rough guy  
Just can't get enough guy  
Chest always so puffed guy  
I'm that bad type  
Make your mama sad type  
Make your girlfriend mad tight  
Might seduce your dad type  
I'm the bad guy, duh"
> 
> -bad guy, Billie Eilish

Harry _ really _ should be focusing on his Wit-Sharpening Potion. It’s all revision, but he’s never been very good at Potions and he can sense Lavender’s losing patience with him. He swallows hard and tries to focus because he needs her in a good mood for _ this._

For when he tells her.

About Tom.

Because he has to tell her. He has to tell her and he has to make her understand that Harry’s _ sorry_. That Harry is sorry that he betrayed her trust, but he’s _ not _ sorry about Tom. That he _ likes _Tom so Goddamn much that Harry loses his words when he looks at him, feels it deep in his belly whenever touches him, how he likes to lick the laugh out of Tom’s mouth. He has to tell Lavender and make her understand that he is sorry, but he doesn’t regret it.

“Harry, no not more armadillo bile!” Lavender insists, grabbing Harry’s wrist before he overstirs their potion. Harry winces and looks up at her apologetically, but she’s barely paying him attention as she adds the ginger roots. “Okay, stir again until it’s lime green and _ then _more armadillo bile.”

“Right, sorry,” Harry mutters. “I’m not very good at this.”

Lavender’s lips quirk up into a smile. “I can tell,” she teases. She hipchecks him playfully. “Are you alright? You seem distracted.”

She notices. At least, Harry thinks she’s paying more attention. To him, especially. After what happened last Thursday, he can imagine why.

She calls him distracted.

He is. Distracted.

He has to tell her about Tom. Harry has to tell her—

“Okay, armadillo bile,” Lavender prompts.

Harry does as directed and looks at the table ahead at Hermione and Ron’s back as they quietly bicker over their Wit-Sharpening Potion. Harry squints hard enough that Hermione glances over her shoulder. She meets his eyes and raises an eyebrow, looking very deliberately at Lavender before she turns back around to snap at Ron as Snape swoops around to peer into their cauldron.

“Uh...Lavender, I...I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry stammers under his breath.

Lavender hums as the potion turns purple. She plucks the stirrer from Harry’s grip and pats his hand. “It has to simmer for ten minutes,” she tells him like he can’t read the instructions—she’s right, he’d been relying on her instruction the entire time. “So, what is it that you have to tell me?”

“I...you know, uh, Tom Riddle?”

Lavender raises an eyebrow. “Um. Yes?” she deadpans. She looks almost amused by the look on his face. He imagines he looks constipated; Harry feels kinda constipated. “What about him?”

“I...well…we’ve been talking,” Harry begins. Then, he stops.

Lavender’s eyebrows crease harder. “_ About _?”

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it again.

_ About how we’re kissing. About how we’re spending time together. About how they’re eventually going to fuc— _

“About—”

“Potter, Brown, I imagine that you’re discussing the merits of your rather _ poorly _rendered Wit-Sharpening Potion,” Snape barks as he swoops in like an overgrown bat and for that moment, Harry is utterly grateful. He’s less grateful when Snape hisses, “Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Lavender sighs as Snape turns his back on them. She shrugs at Harry’s apologetic stare.

“Don’t worry about it—” she mentions.

Then, just as she speaks, Snape barks out, “Bottle what you have. I shall evaluate your potionmaking skills on your results.”

Harry can hear Hermione cursing even as she ladles her and Ron’s _ perfect _potion into their little vial. Harry presents one to Lavender. Their potion is nowhere near perfect, but Lavender doesn’t seem to mind as she bottles the potion.

“Clean up while I deliver the goods?” Lavender asks.

“Sure,” Harry say awkwardly as he begins to clean their station. He curses again and again under his breath, because he can’t seem to force the fucking words out of his mouth.

How hard is it to say: _ Hey Lavender, Tom Riddle and I are dating. _

Harry finishes sweeping their potions scraps into the bin and he Vanishes them with little difficulty. He sighs as he sits back onto his stool, looking over at Ron and Hermione, but they seem involved in some kind of conversation, speaking in hushed tones. They leave without a glance backward. Harry’s lips twitch at the idea that his two best friends are getting closer. They’d always been close, but not _ that _kind of close.

He wonders…

“Alright, Harry?” Lavender asks as she skips back over. She grabs her copy of _ Advanced Potion Making _and tucks it under her arm. Harry stands and the pair ride the sea of students out of the dungeon.

“Potter.”

Harry pauses in the doorway, Lavender lingering at his side, and he looks over his shoulder. For once, Snape isn’t sneering at him; instead, he’s looking at him with the most peculiar expression on his face.

“Professor?” Harry asks uncertainly.

“You’ll be excused from class tomorrow morning,” Snape says coolly. He pauses again, and then straightens more. “Tomorrow’s class will be dedicated to…elixirs.”

Harry’s mouth goes dry for just a moment before he begins to salivate. He can feel his bones vibrating in his skin as a shiver slithers down his spine.

“I...that’s unnecessary, Professor—” he finds himself saying, proving just how _ damned _necessary it is.

“This is non-negotiable, Potter,” Snape says coldly. “Instead, you’ll be in the library, writing a treatise on Golpalott’s Third Law. Sixteen inches. Due Tuesday.”

Harry falls himself crash back down to Earth and he swallows hard, nodding. He looks down at the ground and clears his throat as he marches out without another word. Hermione and Ron look at both Lavender and Harry, confused when Harry won’t meet Lavender’s curious gaze.

“What was that about?” Hermione asks.

“Professor Snape just excused Harry from class tomorrow! He assigned him an essay on Golpalott’s Third Law instead,” Lavender volunteers. She looks over at Harry, frowning. “Do you have something to do?”

“Tomorrow’s lesson?” Ron asks, frowning. “What’s—”

“Elixirs,” Hermione says shortly. She looks over at Harry meaningfully. “Harry—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Harry says firmly. “Just...shower, please. After Potions.”

“Of course, mate,” Ron says firmly.

“Why?” Lavender asks.

_ (Because the smell of Euphoria is going to make me lick the scent of it off your skin _ , he doesn’t say. _ Because the smell of Euphoria is going to drown me, _he doesn’t say.

_ Because the smell of Euphoria is going to kill me, _he doesn’t say.)

“Harry’s allergic to certain ingredients in elixirs,” Hermione lies smoothly. She doesn’t look like it hurts to do at all, and she doesn’t even look at Lavender. Lavender takes the bold-faced lie at face value, nodding, and she links arms with Hermione.

Hermione startles at that, staring wide-eyed at Lavender. She opens her mouth and then closes it again.

“Ready for duelling club today?” Lavender asks. She shoots a sly look at Harry, lips twitching. “Guess I’ll finally see what all of that _ talk _is about, won’t I, Harry?”

Harry winces. “Uh, yeah,” he mutters, nodding to himself.

_ (Tell her. Tell her. TELL HER—) _

He won’t. He can’t. Manage it.

Harry sighs as he looks over at Ron who looks nervous, but not as upset as usual when he’s being subjected to Tom’s presence. Ron leans in as they walk side by side.

“I reckon she’s getting over that prat, yeah?” Ron asks.

“Merlin, I hope so,” Harry says, probably a shade too excited by the prospect. He sighs as he stares at Hermione and Lavender’s back as Lavender chatters on and on as they emerge from the dungeons and go up the Staircase to the duelling room. “She’s too good for him.”

“Of course, she is. Lavender’s brilliant. Maybe not in the same way as Hermione, but she _ is,” _Ron says firmly, as emphatically as he can.

Lavender glances over her shoulder and smiles, and Ron clears his throat, looking away, ears turning red. Lavender looks surprised and she looks over at Hermione, a grin growing across her face. She whispers in Hermione’s ear, and Hermione scoffs.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Ron mutters.

Harry’s lips twitch. “Uh, you, mate. I’m pretty sure they’re talking about you.”

Ron flushes harder.

“Why’re you so red?” Ginny calls as they finally make it to the duelling room.

Ron glares at her. “None of your business.”

Ginny scoffs as she bumps the door open and holds it open for Luna. She promptly lets it swing closed in Ron’s face, and Ron grimaces as he just barely catches it. He holds the door open and Hermione and Lavender duck under his long stringbean arm. Harry enters last, and swallows hard when he sees the Death Eaters.

They’re all standing in a rather intimidating line against the far wall of the room—now recognizable as their territory.

And there is Tom Riddle, standing on the duelling platform, long coat discarded along with his tie. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, carefully folded creases. He’s unbuttoned the first two buttons at the top of his shirt. Harry can see his tattoo on his left forearm.

Harry wants to trace the ink with his tongue.

“Harry,” Tom drawls.

“Riddle,” Harry says because it’s still easy enough to call him that when he still calls him that in his head half of the time.

“Starting right out of the gate, then?” Luna asks pleasantly.

Ron grumbles next to her, “They think they look intimidating, don’t they?”

“Don’t we,” Nott grunts.

Harry’s eyes narrow because he refuses to admit that they do.

Luna has no such problem. “Oh, yes,” she says. “You’re rather terrifying.”

The Lestrange brothers grin.

“Are we just going to stand here or is Potter going to duel Tom?” Bellatrix demands impatiently, and she looks like a bloodthirsty jackal, like she’s just _ waiting _for Harry to get his ass kicked.

She’d like that, he thinks.

Harry has no interest in getting his ass kicked, however.

He pulls off his robe and loosens his tie before he ascends the platform. He glances over his shoulder at Lavender who’s staring in starry-eyed wonder and he frowns. Harry looks back at Tom, and Tom has all eyes for him.

He smirks.

“I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face, Riddle,” Harry promises.

Tom _ grins_. “We bow,” he goads, falling into a bow that’s so fucking regulation it feels like mockery.

Harry dips his head and immediately fires off a Stunner. Easily, Tom bats it away, and then they’re going back and forth, Harry dodging vicious hexes and jinxes that Tom has no problem throwing his way, and Harry glares because he _ should _ have a problem through rather terrible spells at his fucking _ boyfriend._ But, Tom just grins as he catches Harry’s right leg with something that freezes all of the filaments of his tendons and sets them on fire.

“I fucking _ hate _ you,” Harry growls as he pushes through the pain and spouts off, “_Incendio_.”

Tom has no problem dodging a spiral of fire and then casting the countercurse to the first spell that had connected with Harry.

“No, you don’t,” he teases. And then, they fall into a rhythm, trading spells back and forth.

The pair pop and weave, spells never connecting, ricocheting off walls and the duelling platform. In the back of his head, Harry notes that Hermione has been keeping up a steady Shield Charm around the rest of Defence Squad, but Harry is too lost in his own recklessness. He slips into Tom’s orbit, spinning around him and side stepping when Tom tries to turn with him, attempting to keep him in sight.

“What are you doing, Harry?” Tom practically sings as Harry flips around, back pressed to Tom’s. He moves, mirroring Tom each time he tries to change.

“Playing a _ game, _” Harry teases.

“We’re not meant to be playing games, Harry. This is a _ duel_—” and then Tom spins around and tosses a neat _ Petrificus Totalus _ at Harry. Harry just barely dodges, rolling towards the edge of the platform before he pushes himself up, grinning. When he finally pushes himself to his feet, Tom is _ right _there, and there they were, sharing breath, grinning in each other’s faces, breathing heavily.

And then, Lavender steps forward up to the duelling platform, clapping.

There’s something in her eyes, slightly hysterical, and Harry stares at her, eyes darting over her face, before he takes a massive step back, his smile faltering.

“That was _ amazing_,” Lavender says cheerfully. Her smile falters and then she brightens, her optimism lighting up the room. “Will we learn how to duel like that?”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He glances over at Tom, but Tom has pulled his smile back to something smarmy and precise. A mask that Harry suddenly hates more than anything. Tom steps up to the edge and looks at the room, beckoning his Death Eaters forward.

“Perhaps not with the same skill or ferocity, but I hope that this duel has shown you what will be expected when the duelling tournament begins,” Tom says firmly. “This will be our last official meeting before the tournament begins next term, in which will we have sporadic practices. The tournament will take place over the course of two weekends, and so in that week in between, we will know exactly how to match our strengths to their weaknesses. We _ will _win.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Tom’s dark eyes look almost crimson.

“_Losing_,” he says, “is not an option.”


	37. FRIDAY, 3:04PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Ginny and Harry hang out.

“Thanks for hanging out with me.”

Ginny lays on her back in the middle of the Room of Requirement, staring up at the ceiling as it shifts and changes, darkness giving way to shooting stars and a moon hanging low in the air. This is not by Harry’s design. When he glances at her, questioning, she gives a half-smile.

“This is what the sky looks like at the Burrow. You should come see it over the holidays,” Ginny says. She turns, curling towards him, a small smile on her face. “You never come for the holidays anymore.”

“Sirius and Remus are greedy for my attention,” Harry says jokingly. And then, he falters for a moment. “Also, don’t...thank me for hanging out with you. You’re my friend.”

Ginny laughs quietly. When they’re alone and Ron isn’t there to tease, she’s quieter, but not in the same way that she used to be. When she was quiet before, it was as if she were quiet by design, like she was cutting her vocal cords and making herself silent. Now, she’s quiet because she wants to be, because she’s being thoughtful.

It’s much more jarring when she’s being thoughtful.

“I’ve missed you,” Ginny says. “You were always there when I needed a little extra help, and now...I feel like I don’t see you as much.”

Harry sighs as he lays next to Ginny in the pillows and looks up at the bewitched nighttime sky.

“Maybe that’s because you spend all of your spare time with _ Zabini_,” Harry teases.

He watches the tips of Ginny’s ears turn red, just like her brother. Harry laughs.

“He’s...yeah, we’re...talking,” Ginny mutters.

“Don’t be shy, Ginevra. What was it you told Ron? You were—” and Harry is glad that he doesn’t have to finish the sentence because his cheeks are already slightly hot.

Ginny slaps her hand over his mouth and laughs, curling towards him.

“I mostly said that to make Ron go mad. We didn’t actually...you know, have sex,” Ginny says. She sounds almost ashamed of it, except her lips tilt into a half-smile. “We...talked a lot. I slept over. And we just were talking and talking and...that’s what we do a lot. We talk. I never talked as much with Dean.”

“What do you talk about?” Harry asks.

Ginny hesitates. “Would it be cliche if I said...hopes and dreams?”

“Just a little,” Harry laughs, shaking his head.

“Well, that’s what we talk about. It’s nice. To have someone to share with,” Ginny says softly. She fully rolls onto her side and there’s something devilish to her smile now that immediately sets Harry on edge. “So…what about you?”

“What _ about _me?”

“We’re always talking about who _ we _ fancy. Do you fancy anyone?” Ginny asks. She huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “I used to have the _ biggest _crush on you, you know. So many people do. But, you’ve never dated around Hogwarts. Why?”

And it’s a big question.

It’s not the first time someone has asked it.

Harry bites his lips and thinks. Miriam would tell him that it’s good to share. He shouldn’t keep things to himself. He should have friends that he can talk to.

“I...I’m bad at boundaries,” Harry begins. “I mean, I don’t really set them. I’m a people pleaser. And a people-saver, and I believe too much in the good of everyone while also being suspicious of everyone. I’m just...I’m bad at boundaries.”

He repeats it again, finishing lamely and he sighs, clapping his hands to his face and groaning. He laughs softly, shaking his head. And then, he feels small hands on his wrists, pulling the hands away. He looks at Ginny, and she’s looking at him so fondly.

"So...no to Tom Riddle?" Ginny teases, waggling her eyebrows.

For a second, Harry's heart stops before he realizes that Ginny is just teasing. He rolls his eyes, and hopes that's enough of an answer so he doesn't have to lie to her. Ginny lets out a long laugh and reaches across the space between them to grab his hand.

“You deserve all the happiness in the world, Harry Potter,” Ginny says softly. “You’ll get better at boundaries and get what you deserve.”

And Harry remembers then, why he’s so _ utterly _grateful for Ginevra Molly Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter for today. See the new tags ;)


	38. FRIDAY, 6:07PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Tom have a date.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "You don't gotta tell me 'bout your body count  
I don't gotta know your ex's name  
'Cause if it just so happens that you turn around and ask me  
I think you might feel some type of way"
> 
> -Body Count, Jessie Reyez

Harry hovers in front of the door nervously. He looks over his shoulder, but he knows that most everyone is at dinner. And he’s here.

In front of the Heads’ rooms.

He knocks on the door in quick short raps because he doesn’t know the password. There’s a brief moment of silence and then the door swings open. He smiles and then he falters when he sees that it’s not _ Tom _waiting for him.

“Uh. Hi. Is...is Tom here?” Harry asks uncertainly.

Penelope Clearwater leans against the archway, arms folded over his chest. She raises an eyebrow as she looks him up and down. Then, she looks over her shoulder.

“Riddle, your boyfriend is here,” she declares.

And then, she steps to the side and lets him in. Harry flushes dangerously as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Tom emerges from his bedroom, dressed rather casual. Casual for Tom means that his shirt is partially unbuttoned, but it’s still a _ lovely _sight.

“I’m not...he’s not my—” Harry stutters.

Clearwater snorts. “I’ve overheard enough from him and his little groupies to know that you’re his boyfriend. Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone,” Clearwater says snippily. “Honestly, I’m glad for it. At least now he’ll stop bringing over a new fuck every _ week_.”

“Come now, Clearwater—” Tom drawls, at ease with Clearwater’s chilliness, like it doesn’t mean anything to him.

She rolls her eyes but waves him away like Tom couldn’t curse her. Harry wonders if they trade jinxes often. They seem the type.

“I have an entrance exam on Sunday. Just...keep it down and use Silencing Charms,” Clearwater says, wrapping her comforter around her tighter as she trudges back into her bedroom and shuts the door with a heavy slam.

Harry flounders and ignores Tom’s soft chuckles as Tom walks up to him. Harry notices that he doesn’t have any pomade or product in his hair, short black hairs waving over his forehead.

“I’ve been told some people find her quite charming. Rabastan is enthralled,” Tom says as he reaches for Harry, dragging him in, pressing their thighs together. He leans down, brushing his nose against Harry’s. “Hello, brat.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry whispers as he leans up just enough to close the distance between their lips. He revels in the slight pressure, the heat of his lips before he pulls back and marches straight into Tom’s room.

He hesitates in the doorway when he sees Nagini the snake lounging across the bedspread. Then, he feels Tom’s heat radiate as he joins him, standing at Harry’s back, one hand falling to Harry’s waist.

Tom hisses and Harry twitches at that sound again.

Nagini hisses back before she slinks off the bed with a heavy thud and goes to her big magically heated rock.

Tom ducks his head, pressing his face into the crook of Harry’s neck and Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

“I thought we were doing homework,” Harry whispers.

“We both know that we’re not doing homework, Harry,” Tom murmurs against his skin as he walks him inside. He swings around, settling on the edge of the bed and spreads his thighs, trousers going tight against the taut muscles there that framed his bulge perfectly.

Harry catches himself licking his lips and Tom smirks.

Harry frowns as he creeps forward, and then as gracefully as he can, mounts Tom’s thighs, slipping into his lap. Tom catches him, big hands slipping over Harry’s arse and squeezing. Harry gasps, sliding his hands up Tom’s broad shoulders before he wraps his arms around Tom’s neck. From this angle, he’s taller and Harry feels the power in that. He dips his head down and doesn’t kiss him just yet. Instead, he nudges his nose against Tom’s.

Tom leans up to capture his lips and Harry leans back, smiling.

“I’m a little hungry, you know,” Harry murmurs.

Tom frowns up at him. “We’ll eat later,” he declares as his hands tighten on Harry’s waist and he leans up again.

Once more, Harry evades him, grinning.

“You seem rather eager, Tom,” Harry teases. He rolls his hips.

“You are a _ brat_,” Tom hisses, brow furrowing.

Harry leans down and whispers against his mouth, “Your brat, though, right?”

When they laugh, they laugh like lovers do, and Harry licks the sound out of Tom’s mouth because he thinks that sometimes he can taste it on his tongue. It tastes mean and pointed and Harry would die to taste this every day. When he pulls back, he licks at his own swollen lips and stares down into Tom’s stupid, smug face.

“What’s that look for?” Harry demands.

Tom huffs out something that might be a laugh but is no less smug than usual. “You fancy me,” Tom drawls. “You were lying to yourself the entire time.”

Harry snorts and dismounts, letting himself fall back onto the bed with a short huff. He bounces once, and he glances over at Nagini on her rock, curled up, her big yellow eyes trained on them. She looks rather cuddly now that she’s not trying to attack Harry for entering Tom’s domain.

“Definitely not the entire time,” Harry says sharply.

Tom looks back at him, waiting patiently for him to expand. When Harry doesn’t say anything, Tom prompts him with, “Then, when?”

“I started thinking you were alright when we went to duelling club for the first time. You...duelling club is important to you. It wasn’t a game. I liked that because you think...everyone is a chess piece you can just push around. But, duelling club isn’t like that for you,” Harry explains. He clears his throats and leans up on his elbows, staring at him. “And then...that night after the Hufflepuff party...”

“You started to fancy me,” Tom finishes, so smug.

“Fuck off,” Harry snorts. He moves to sit up, and then, just as fast, Tom is between his legs, grabbing at his thighs and wrapping them around his waist. Harry gasps at the sudden friction and he arches up into it, his cock twitching.

“You think that I think everything’s a game?” Tom drawls, and he leans down to press a lingering kiss to Harry’s Adam’s apple. Harry gasps, shivering underneath him, and he hates himself for the sound that leaves his throat as he grinds up against Tom, feels the line of Tom’s cock straining against the fly of his trousers.

“I-I do…” Harry hisses. “I think you’re a handsome arrogant bastard—”

“And you _ like _it,” Tom hisses against his mouth.

Harry hums, rocking up against him in a steady rhythm. “Mmm.”

“What do you want?” Tom murmurs against his mouth.

And this is what Harry wants: he wants Riddle between his thighs, his legs wrapped around Riddle’s middle. This is exactly what Harry wants, but he knows this isn’t what Tom wants. He wants to be inside Harry, claiming him, growling into his throat. Harry almost wants that too, but—

So, Harry takes his hand, that big hand with the long fingers and drags it over his own throat. Tom stares down at him, eyes widening, and Harry’s lips part just a bit.

“This,” Harry whispers against his mouth.

And then he uses all of his Quidditch-toned thigh muscles to flip them around so that he’s sitting atop Tom’s hips. Tom sits up fluidly, never one to be on his back, not unless Harry fights him for it.

“Is that all?” Tom drawls.

Oh, yes, Harry knows what Tom wants.

“You’re not going to fuck me,” Harry murmurs, arms wrapped around Tom’s neck as he rolls his hips. He feels powerful up here, perched in Tom’s lap, and Tom groans as he thrusts up and Harry can feel his bulge under him, can feel the coiled power of him.

Tom’s very much like his snake, Harry thinks. Slippery and hidden strength.

“I’m not?” Tom asks.

“Not right now,” Harry says. And yet...he wants to cum. He _ wants_, he thinks about that...that thing that he’s… “But, we can...er, fiddle.”

“Fiddle?” Tom asks, snorting into his throat.

And then, Harry lifts two fingers and wiggles them in Tom’s face. Tom looks a little more intrigued now and even more so when Harry licks the space between them on a whim, cheeks burning red, because he’s so fucking turned on, but not turned on enough not to be vaguely embarrassed by it. Tom hisses.

“_Ah, _fiddle,” Tom hisses and then he’s moving, flinging Harry onto his back and sliding between Harry’s legs. Harry gasps as Tom’s lips brush against his chest, where his shirt is rucked up to his collarbone and moans when those lips drag down over his belly, to the button of his jeans.

“Don’t _ say _it like that,” Harry moans, eyes shut tight in the face of Tom’s smirk.

He keeps his eyes shut because he doesn’t want to see Tom’s face as he unbuttons his jeans. He doesn’t want to see Tom’s face so close to the bulge of his cock, because he can feel his breath there, hot and heavy instead. He doesn’t want to see Tom between his spread thighs because he can feel those hands—big pianist hands with _ long _fingers— on his thighs, brushing over his leg hair.

He doesn’t want to see, but he opens his eyes anyway and moans when Tom pulls his pants down and looks at him, devouring him, possessing him with his eyes. Tom looks up at him, long eyelashes framing his burgundy eyes, pupils blown.

“I’m going to ruin you,” Tom hisses.

And then, Tom hooks Harry’s thighs over his shoulders and licks Harry’s hole, slow and obscene. Harry cries out because he’s never _ done _ this, and Merlin, he feels like he’s on fire. He feels pleasure crawl up his spine and he squirms just as Tom does it _ again_. And _ again_.

Harry groans, thighs tightening over Tom’s shoulders. He gasps, fingers tangling in Tom’s hair, mussing it out of the careful style that Tom had brushed it into. Tom laps at his hole until it unfurls, softening for him, and then, that’s when Harry feels that muscle turn sharp and jutting as Tom fucks his tongue in and out of his hole.

Harry squirms beneath him, crying out, panting.

“T-Tom, _ fuck _—”

“Just like that, Harry,” Tom murmurs, pulling back to kiss his balls, then the juncture of his thigh. “Are you going to cum for me?”

Before Harry can stammer out something rude, Tom lifts one big hand to Harry’s hard cock, where it weeps pre-cum and brushes his thumb over the head. Harry jerks, attempting to thrust up into Tom’s fist when his fingers finally wrap around the shift. He cries out when Tom drags his hand up and down, fast and dirty, twisting his wrist just so.

“Cum for me, Harry. Won’t you?” Tom says pleasantly, like he’s talking about the weather, like he isn’t in control of all of Harry’s pleasure.

Harry thrust up into Tom’s fist again. “_ Gah _—”

Tom laps at his hole one more time and then, he’s looming over Harry. His eyes are hard, and with one word, he commands, “_Cum_.”

And Harry _ does. _


	39. SATURDAY, 10:52AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry departs to London.

“This feels illicit,” Harry drawls, smiling up at Tom as he leans against the column. They’re close to the train—remarkably close—but Harry trusts the power of Tom’s Notice-Me-Not charms, and there’s no reason that any first years over eager to get on the train should be getting to them.

Harry can hear Hagrid shouting that it’s nearly eleven, that’s it’s almost time to get back on the train. Harry knows that Sirius will be fetching him from the train station. Remus will join them tomorrow.

“Who taught you that word?” Tom challenges.

Harry pauses. “What d’ you mean?”

“ ‘Illicit’?” Tom asks with a raised eyebrow. “Sounds like a five-point word. Who taught it to you? Granger?”

Harry laughs. “Fuck you. I’m smart!”

Both of Tom’s eyebrows raise now, but there’s something mischievous in his eyes that makes Harry laugh, elbowing him hard in the stomach. Tom almost snorts and leans down to nudge his nose up against Harry’s.

“You’re quite gifted in magic, darling, but booksmart? Well, you are no Ravenclaw,” Tom drawls.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t need to be a Ravenclaw to be smart.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call you stupid. Just lacking in work ethic when you don’t care,” Tom teases.

“Yes, well, who  _ cares  _ about History of Magic?” Harry pouts.

Tom kisses the pout from his mouth and Harry leans into it, wrapping one arm around Tom’s neck, dragging him down. They kiss, lips sliding together in a rhythm that’s become rather familiar now. When they pull apart, Harry sighs.

“What?” Tom asks.

“You’re staying for Christmas. Here,” Harry says like he’s just realized, like he doesn’t know Tom always stays.

Tom frowns. “I always stay. Every year,” he says, like it doesn’t matter to him. “Perhaps I’ll spend Boxing Day with Bellatrix’s family.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. He still can’t stand Bellatrix fucking Black.

“Come...come home with me,” Harry whispers. He can’t stop his voice from trembling, and he can’t look Tom in the eye, because this makes it too real, too vulnerable.

Tom’s hands tighten on his jaw.

“No,” Tom hisses against his mouth, and then, he pulls back, staring down at Harry for a long moment. “Just eat a Chocolate Frog for me.”

Harry’s fingers knot in Tom’s robes and he closes his eyes, because he remembers.

He remembers years ago—he remembers being eleven and he remembers this boy at twelve. He remembers a Christmas dinner shared between two non-friends, the only younger years that were there that year. He remembers the others singing carols while Harry sat by the fire alone.

He remembers Tom joining him.

He remembers giving Tom a Chocolate frog because he’d already had that card.

He remembers Tom giving him one back.

“Okay,” Harry breathes.

Tom pulls away, taking a step back, eyes trained on him.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

Harry bites his bottom lip. “Goodbye.”


	40. TUESDAY, 5:23PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry thinks back.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Have yourself a merry little Christmas  
Let your heart be light  
Next year all our troubles will be out of sight  
Have yourself a merry little Christmas  
Make the yuletide gay  
Next year all our troubles will be miles away"
> 
> -Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, Frank Sinatra

_ “_ _Once again as in olden days _

_ Happy golden days of yore _

_ Faithful friends who are dear to us _

_ Will be near to us once more,_” the record player goes, the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra filling the parlor.

Harry sighs his comfort, his head falling back against Sirius’ knee. He looks up, smiling up into his godfather’s face as he looks away from his book to meet Harry’s eyes. Sirius wiggles his eyebrows and scrunches his nose, making his reading glasses jump up and down.

“What do you want, kid?” Sirius teases.

“Nothing. I’m just _ bored. _Entertain me?” Harry says with a smirk.

Sirius scoffs, but he can’t help but grin down at Harry, and that’s what Harry’s aiming for.

“What kind of entertainment? Story, then?” Sirius asks. There must be something about Harry’s face, because Sirius’ gaze softens, and he nods. “Alright, a story, then. Remus, you’ll have to help me remember. Azkaban addled my brain and all that.”

Remus scoffs as he looks up from the fourth year essays that he’s grading. “I thought that happened before Azkaban. You’ve always been this way.”

“Don’t be _ mean _to me,” Sirius whinges, and Remus’ lips twitch as he rolls his eyes. “Anyway, would you like to hear the story of the time your mother accidentally drugged James into an eternal sleep and then woke him up with a kiss?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Harry blurts out.

Sirius grins. “She was always _ good _at Potions, but not even she could get out of a mistake or two. Now, settle, young deer—”

“I’m not a _ deer._”

“Is your Patronus not a stag?” Sirius insists.

“I mean, I guess—”

“You’re interrupting the story!” Sirius cries out. He pats Harry on top of the head and says, “Now, it all started one fifth year autumn day. Mind you, your parents didn’t properly get together until the beginning of seventh year, and Lily Evans could not _ stand _James Potter, for good reason.”

And the story is told. Harry sinks back into the edge of the couch, his head balanced on Sirius’ thigh. He sighs as Sirius runs his fingers through his hair and Harry closes his eyes, utterly content.

Harry doesn’t ask for stories often. They make him sad.

He doesn’t think people always remember that Harry was three when his parents were murdered.

He remembers what they look like.

He has one memory of them.

Only one.

He was on a toy broomstick, zooming about their living room, in the house in Godric’s Hollow that Harry knows belongs to him but a house that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to live in. James was chasing him, laughing, hands held outstretched in case Harry tumbled off. Lily was laughing, holding up a camera, snapping pictures of them.

Harry has that picture of him, zooming on a toy broomstick. James’ fingers are at the edge of the frame.

Harry remembers them.

And he’s grateful that he does, sometimes. But, sometimes, he’s so grateful that he has Sirius and Remus because he dosen’t think he’d have made it without them.

Sirius is in the middle of speaking about how he tried to kiss James awake himself because no one else was up to the challenge when Harry blurts it out.

“I’m dating Tom.”

Sirius looks down, surprised.

Remus actually sets aside the essays, his lips parting.

“Oh?” Remus asks, voice swooping up an octave.

Harry flushes. “Uh. Er, yes. I’m dating Tom. Tom’s dating me. He’s my boyfriend.”

Sirius’ lips curl into a slow smile. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters. He looks down at his lap, picks at a loose thread in his jeans. “He’s...good to me.”

And Harry must not tell lies.

That’s what _ she _ told him. Dolores Umbridge had thought he was a liar, when he’d told her about the Dursleys. What they did to him. What they didn’t do for him. As his case worker, she was supposed to believe him. She hadn’t until Madame Pomfrey had stood up for him. Until Professor McGonagall had spoken up. Until Dumbledore had taken him to the side and told him that he _ believed _him.

_ ( _ You must not lie, Mr. Potter, _ she says in her shrill voice. He doesn’t dream about her anymore, though. _)

“Thanks for telling us,” Remus says softly.

Harry looks up and feels a thousand times lighter. Neither of them ask about Lavender. They just look happy that _ he’s _happy.

Harry grins.

“I think...I think I’m going to play,” Harry says as he pushes himself to his feet. He ignores the surprised looks that Sirius and Remus exchange, and busies himself with searching for sheet music around the parlor as Kreacher finally pops in with their hot chocolate. “You can just put mine on the coffee table, Kreacher. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Remus says even as the old, ugly house elf sneers in his face and mutters something about filthy werewolves. He takes a sip from the hot chocolate and smiles because Remus delights in all things that are chocolate. “Are you really going to play?”

And Harry feels good. He feels light.

He’s at home, with his parents, and he wants to _ play_. He sits at the piano and nods.

“How about _ God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs?_” Harry suggests even as he cracks his knuckles and begins to play.

He watches Sirius flick his wand, silencing the record player, and then Sirius joins in, screeching the first verse of _ God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs, _and Harry laughs as he plays.


	41. WEDNESDAY, 11:07AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Christmas Day comes.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "If you need me, wanna see me  
Better hurry 'cause I'm leavin' soon
> 
> Sorry can't save me now  
Sorry I don't know how  
Sorry there's no way out (Sorry)  
But down  
Hmm, down"
> 
> -listen before i go, Billie Eilish

“HAPPY CHRISTMAS!” Sirius screams for the sixth time this morning.

“Jesus,” Remus groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Harry grins as Sirius skids across the freshly waxed parlor floor in his new socks. Remus rolls his eyes and tucks back into the side of the couch, sipping at his hot cocoa. Harry grips his own between his hands, tucked into his new emerald green jumped, an enormous ‘H’ across the front, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley. Harry looks at his gifts and can’t stop feeling overwhelmed.

When he was a child, he’d never imagined that this might all be his.

He has broomstick polish for his Firebolt from Ginny and Ron, a new jacket from Sirius and Remus, his jumper, a planner from Hermione, a stack of tarot cards from Lavender, and a handmade bracelet from Luna. Luna had even attached a card, promising that it would ward of Nargles, but she didn’t think it’d do much against Wrackspurts.

“You’d think he was the kid,” Harry laughs, and Remus snickers to himself, shaking his head.

“Maybe Azkaban really _ did _addle his brain,” Remus teases.

Sirius spins on his partner, hands on his hips. For a moment, he reminds Harry strikingly of a strange combination of Hermione and Mrs. Weasley. It just makes Harry laugh even harder.

“I’ll have you know that I am the _ only _one allowed to make Azkaban jokes. That’s the rule!” Sirius proclaims.

“That’s the rule?” Remus challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Sirius huffs. “Of course! You can only make jokes about Azkaban if you were sentenced to Azkaban. I don’t make the rules. I’m just a humble messenger,” Sirius says, brow creased in a way that means he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

Of course, he can’t quite manage not to when Remus is smiling at him like that.

It’s the way that they look at one another that makes Harry think that true love might be a thing. For him, it’d always been in the stories that people told about Lily and James, but Sirius and Remus make Harry _ think _ and _ yearn _in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

He turns his gaze down to his lap and fights his smile, incisor digging into his bottom lip.

“Knut for your thoughts?” Sirius teases as he slides onto the couch on the other side of Harry, tossing her arm across the back of his seat. His fingers crawl up Remus’ neck, to the nape of his neck, stroking the short brown hairs there.

Sirius is looking at Harry.

“I just...am really, really glad that I live with you two,” Harry murmurs.

Remus smiles. “It’s where you belong. With us. We love you, Harry.”

“I love you too,” Harry sighs, leaning into Sirius’ side. He bites his bottom lip. “It...sometimes, I forget that I’m not alone anymore and you two try your hardest to _ always _remind me.”

He appreciates them, is what he means. He thinks that they get it; Remus’ smile widens, and the mischievous sparkle in Sirius’ grey eyes softens.

“So, what did your haul look like for this year, kid? Did you clean up?” Sirius teases.

Harry laughs as he goes through all of his gifts, going through the typical gifts—his sweater from Mrs. Weasley and a planner from Hermione. Sirius oohs and aahs over the broom polish because it really _ is _high quality, practically professional-quality polish, which means it was expensive. But, Remus is staring at the enormous tree that Kreacher had painstakingly decorated with menacing dark ornaments that Sirius had exchanged for bright red and gold ornaments.

“What’s that, there?” Remus asks, pointing at the last present.

It’s wrapped in butcher paper and string, like the person hadn’t given it much thought. It’s not like the shiny paper that Sirius uses, and it’s better wrapped than Sirius’ usual wrap jobs too. The person that wrapped this present seems to be pragmatic and precise.

“I dunno,” Sirius says with a shrug. “I think a hawk dropped it off this morning? It got through the wards so no curses?”

Harry freezes, and Sirius looks down, eyes wide.

“Is...something wrong?” Remus asks uncertainly.

“Tom has a hawk,” Harry hisses and then he slides from the couch onto his knees. Very carefully, he crawls forward, eyes caught on the simply wrapped present.

He pokes it when he’s just by the tree, but it just moves a little. Hesitantly, Harry pulls it forward and sees his name written in the most lovely script. It doesn’t have who it’s from, but Harry _ knows _.

“It’s...it’s from Tom,” Harry whispers. “He really got me a present.”

They hadn’t _ discussed _presents.

“What’d you get him?” Sirius teases

“This fancy quill,” Harry mutters because he hadn’t known what to get Tom on such short notice and he knows he had to get _ something _for the man.

But, this box is far bigger and square to be a quill.

He opens it with shaky hands and his lips part. Sirius makes a sound in the back of his throat, and Harry lifts a shaking hand to stroke the glass front of the octagonal locket. When Harry feels it, he feels the weight in his poem. It’s big, solid gold making up most of it except for the orange glass-like front. Inside are green emeralds, arranged in an ‘S’.

“That’s...that’s the Slytherin Locket,” Remus murmurs.

“What?” Harry asks, voice catching.

“It’s...it’s Slytherin’s locket. It’s supposed to be lost, but…” Remus trails off and then he whispers a few charms, that make of a few shiny lights, but Harry’s unsure of what they’re meant to do until Remus speaks up again. “It’s _ real. _”

“He gave that to you?” Sirius asks. “For _ real _?”

Harry bites his bottom lip to ruin.

“Do you want to...try it on?” Remus asks uncertainly.

Harry shuts the box and looks up at his godparents. He opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“Should I...this is too much, isn’t it? We just got together and...this is too much,” Harry says firmly. He looks at them, because he wants them to agree, but neither seems to know what to say.

Instead, they look at one another, before looking down at him.

“We can’t...say. Does it feel like too much?” Sirius asks sincerely. “We just want you to be comfortable. How do you feel?”

The problem is that Harry feels too much to _ know, _and sometimes, he doesn’t feel anything at all.


	42. THURSDAY, 6:23PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the Black-Lupin household hosts a dinner.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "You're perfectly wrong for me  
And that's why it's so hard to leave  
Yeah, you're perfectly wrong for me  
Oh, you're perfectly wrong for me  
All the stars in the sky could see  
Why you're perfectly wrong for me"
> 
> \- Perfectly Wrong, Shawn Mendes

Harry, Sirius, and Remus have a tradition in the Grimmauld House of Black.

Harry’s told that it’s an extension of Sirius’ childhood tradition, a rather unpleasant one, and one that Sirius’ family has no intention of ending with the timely death of his mother. So, now, there is a new one to accommodate Harry and Remus and to make everyone else as uncomfortable as possible.

It goes like this: Christmas Day is for their little family alone. Harry went to the Weasleys, once, in his second year, but since then, even when he was still technically in the Dursley’s custody for that in-between year, Harry spends Christmas with Sirius and Remus.

But, Boxing Day is the Day of the Blacks.

That is the day when the living Blacks return to their ancestral home at Number Twelve and are generally massive arseholes.

There’s a reason besides Tom that Harry isn’t Bellatrix’s biggest fan.

“I fucking hate this,” Harry mutters under his breath.

“At least we’re not in robes,” Remus whispers back as they linger by the front door, waiting for the inevitable knock because the rest of the Blacks can’t Floo like normal people—no, they’d rather be formal and  _ knock  _ at the front door.

Harry sighs his relief because he remembers his first year with the rest of the Blacks and being stuffed into stiff dress robes and Sleakeazy slathered on his head. That was before Sirius and Remus and Harry had all decided that the rest of the Blacks could go to hell.

Before Sirius can even make a joke, there’s a knock at the door.

Sirius wrenches open the doorway, and barely manages to hold back a grimace.

Cygnus and Druella Black are a handsome couple, severe in their countenance and hard in jaw. Between them is Bellatrix Black, looking like she’d rather be literally anywhere else. And then, her eyes catch on Harry and narrow.

“Uncle Cygnus, Aunt Druella, and Cousin Bellatrix, welcome to Grimmauld Place,” Sirius says oddly stiff and formal.

Harry hates this.

He knows Cygnus and Druella are trying where Walburga, Sirius’ mother could not, would not. He knows that they don’t exactly disapprove of Remus, but he knows that they’re also still so proper with their noses in the air.

“Thank you, Sirius. I hope you won’t mind that we’ve brought a guest,” Cygnus says in his snotty voice, as he steps into Grimmauld Place, his wife on his arm.

Harry turns white as he sees the last member of their party.

Tom doesn’t even look at him as he offers his arm to Bellatrix. Bellatrix latches on, and doesn’t even manage to look properly smug. If anything, she looks put out with her best friend’s presence. Remus makes a sound in the back of his throat, glancing down at Harry for a moment before he reaches a hand out.

“Professor,” Tom says, grabbing Remus’ hand and shaking it once.

“Happy Christmas, Tom. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Happy Christmas to you, as well,” Tom says. He turns to Sirius and inclines his head. “Mr. Black, a pleasure.”

“Sirius...is...fine,” Sirius whispers, voice fading.

Sirius nearly turns to look at Harry, but he stops himself. Just barely. Harry bites his bottom lip and takes a deep breath, one that steadies him. He knows that this is going to be  _ trying _ .

“Glad that you know one another. Bellatrix tells me that Harry is also on their duelling team,” Druella says sharply. She steps into the house, and Harry sees who Bellatrix gets her penchant for tall, sharp boots from.

Druella pulls her cloak from her shoulders, tosses it into Sirius’ hands as she steps further into the house, her husband behind her.

Kreacher bursts into tears from the staircase, carrying on about  _ real,  _ true Blacks finally returning to Grimmauld Place, and it’s all very tradition.

Except.

Tom is here, and he’s not looking at Harry.

Bellatrix can’t  _ stop  _ looking at him.

“Shall we have a drink before dinner, then?” Cygnus suggests.

“Right this way, Mr. and Missus Black. Kreacher will show you,” Kreacher says, bouncing down the stairs and leading the elder Blacks into the second parlor—the parlor where all of the presents and holiday cheer is removed for the cold and clinical.

Kreacher had decorated  _ that  _ room.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Remus mutters.

“Fine...fine,” Harry says almost distantly. “Go...go on without me.”

Sirius seems to straighten up and grabs Bellatrix’s hand. Bellatrix looks at him, appalled, but Sirius doesn’t let up, tugging her straight from Tom and wrapping his entire arm around her, even though she’s taller than him in her boots, and of a height with him without them.

“Trixie! It’s been too long!” Sirius says, full of cheer.

“ _ Don’t  _ call me Trixie…” Bellatrix snarls as they walk away, and then.

And then.

It’s Harry and Tom in the foyer.

Tom finally looks at him, and his eyes fall to Harry’s neck first.

“Did you like your gift?” Tom asks coldly.

Harry bites his bottom lip. “It was...it’s too much, Tom. That’s the Slytherin Locket.”

“I know what it is,” Tom retorts, arms folding over his chest. “And I get to decide what it is and isn’t too much.”

“That’s not true and you know it,” Harry snaps back, eyes narrowing. He lets out a long sigh, running his fingers through his hair. He takes a step closer, reaching hesitantly for Tom’s wrist before he grows bolder. He grabs Tom’s hand, laces their fingers together and leans up, pressing a kiss to the corner of Tom’s mouth.

Tom stays very still for just a moment before he turns, lifting his free hand to cup Harry’s jaw, tilting him just the right way so that Tom can devour him, lick his way into Harry’s mouth. Harry sighs, leaning into that feeling, their tongues brushing together, lips moving. When Tom pulls back, Harry’s lips curl into a smile despite himself.

Tom hums, pressing his nose to Harry’s hair.

“Are you smelling me?” Harry teases.

“No,” Tom lies quite easily.

Harry laughs softly. He pulls back, looks up at Tom, a little more serious. “I just...it’s your locket. And I just…”

“Harry, it’s fine,” Tom says.

Harry doesn’t think Tom’s all that fine.

But, he follows him into the second parlor and takes the glass of elderflower wine from Kreacher’s floating platter and downs it in one go. If Harry receives a worried look from Remus, he ignores it and turns towards the Blacks. Bellatrix is glaring at him, but Harry is long used to  _ that _ .

Harry briefly listens in on what Druella and Cygnus have to say—it’s all about the Black accounts that Sirius is now in charge of, which Harry doesn’t care about—so he turns to Remus who is being resoundingly excluded from the conversation. This is also quite normal. Druella and Cygnus are tolerant. Never let it be said that they’re  _ welcoming _ .

“What are you two talking about, then?” Harry asks. He’s always shocked that Bellatrix can maintain a conversation with Remus without sneering.

“Well, Miss Black—” Remus begins, then, he pauses. “Ah, Bellatrix, I’m sorry, it’s a force of habit.”

“Don’t worry about it, Professor,” Bellatrix says politely. She turns to Harry, eyes narrowing. “We were discussing my future job prospects.”

“Oh, you have any?” Harry asks because he can’t help but be spiteful.

Bellatrix sneers. “Yes, many. Not as many as Tom though. Not as far either. You’re considering something in America, aren’t you, Tom?” she bites out.

Harry’s eyes narrow and he turns to Tom. “You  _ are? _ ”

Tom rolls his eyes, clearly already done with the pair of them.

“I’m considering all opportunities,” Tom says diplomatically.

“As you should. You are an enormous talent, Tom,” Remus says cheerfully, as if the tension just slides right off him.

And for a moment, Harry to yell and shout because Tom wants to be a  _ teacher _ . Tom  _ told  _ him. Tom told him that Hogwarts was his  _ home _ . But, Tom won’t look at him now, instead nodding at whatever Remus is saying.

“We should do something to celebrate all of your achievements, Tom. Maybe something with your birthday too,” Bellatrix says.

“Birthday?” Harry mutters.

“Oh, it’s on the 31st, didn’t you know?” Bellatrix says in the  _ fakest  _ voice that Harry has  _ ever  _ heard. “We should—”

“Bellatrix,” Tom says, and he gives her one look.

Before she can retort, Kreacher appears with a pop and he announces that dinner is served with a gracious bow, his lips quirking up and he shudders with delight. Druella and Cygnus practically push Sirius from the room and Remus chases after him, probably not to leave Sirius alone with them too long or he’ll go mad again.

For a moment, Harry, Bellatrix, and Tom all look at one another. Tom glances at Harry’s bare neck one more time before he turns on his heel and marches away, distant in a way that Harry nearly flinches from.

And then, it’s just them.

“He chose you.”

The way she says it is not the way Harry expects to hear it.

He has thought a lot about how this confrontation may go. He knows that Bellatrix and Tom slept together. A lot. He thinks that they might’ve been each other’s first. He also thought that this would bother her a lot more. But, Bellatrix doesn’t seem  _ bothered _ or  _ hurt  _ or  _ angry _ .

She seems concerned.

“He did,” Harry murmurs. He leans to the side, awkwardly, glancing at the glow of light from the dining room.

He’d prefer to be eating their stupid fourth course than be trapped in this conversation.

“Tom is my...best friend. I met him on our very first day,” Bellatrix says slowly. She seems to be weighing each word, selecting them carefully. It’s very unlike her. “I know him. He’s obsessive. He gets obsessive. That’s how it was with you, at first.”

“At first,” Harry repeats.

And then, suddenly, Bellatrix is in his face, towering over him in her heels, looking just a little bit wilder than before. “Tom is my  _ best  _ friend,” she repeats. “And maybe, I’m in a tiny bit in love with him, but I adore him far too much to ruin it. He is great. Do you understand that, Harry Potter? That Tom Riddle is  _ great _ ?”

“Er, ah—” Harry stammers.

“That means he is  _ too great  _ to be someone’s secret shame,” Bellatrix bites out, savage and hard.

Harry feels his heart stutter and he stops breathing.

“W-what?”

“He’s too great to be your little  _ secret  _ because you’ll lose face. So, wrap that pretty necklace about your neck and stop being  _ ashamed  _ of him or I’ll hex you into oblivion,” she spits with a reckless fury that makes Harry take an actual step back.

And then, Bellatrix is gone, storming from the room.

Harry shivers as the fire goes out.

He takes a deep breath, and then, he goes to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is late! I'm really ill and slept through the alarm for this chapter. Can't promise that the chapters for the next week will be on time. I think they'll be a little wonky until I get better!
> 
> Anyway, thank you for the happy holiday wishes, and I hope your holidays were great as well!


	43. FRIDAY, 12:35PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry voices what he needs.

Harry trudges down after a bit of a lie-in. He briefly checks the grandfather clock in the corridor, and sees that he’s long slept through breakfast. He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face, trying his very best not to think about what Bellatrix said, because if he does, he’ll think about how right she fucking is.

He digs his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, sighing as his fingers brush against cold metal. He wraps his hand around the locket, holding it tight, as he walks downstairs. The moment he lands on the first floor, he hears Sirius and Remus’ voices.

They’re talking and though Harry can’t make out their exact words, he can sense the seriousness in their tones.

That means they’re probably talking about him.

Harry takes a breath, steels himself, and then marches into the kitchen.

Remus and Sirius stop talking almost immediately. They look up at him and smile.

Okay.

So, they were _ definitely _talking about Harry.

“Good morning,” Harry says slowly.

“Good after_ noon _,” Remus corrects with a smile. He pats the chair, next to him, and Harry looks over to see a rather worthy breakfast spread.

He smiles over at them uncertainly and he slides into the chair, sighing as he leans his whole cheek on his hand as he gets ready to _ devour _ his eggs, because he’s starving. Just as he raises the fork to his mouth, he looks up and sees that Sirius is _ staring _.

“Are you...alright? After last night, I mean,” Sirius says.

“Uh...er, yeah. I’m fine,” Harry says slowly.

Sirius nods. “Oh. Okay.”

A beat of awkward silence as Harry slowly chews his food. He tries to ignore the anxiety that Remus radiates as he tries to figure out how to broach the subject. Harry takes pity on them both because neither of them really signed up to deal with an ex-addict orphan godson with a raging amount of _ boy _problems.

“You can just ask about them. Bellatrix and Tom,” Harry says.

Sirius sighs in relief.

“So...Bellatrix...cornered you last night. Did she say anything…” Sirius trails off. He shakes his head and steels himself. He leans in, eyes narrowed. “Okay, Harry, do I need to duel my cousin? Because I will. Bellatrix has always been a little shit.”

“She’s seventeen! And you’ve been in prison most of her life!” Remus squawks.

Sirius waves his hand. “I knew her until she was four and she used to have a penchant for kicking people in the shin. Narcissa and Andromeda are both a thousand times more tolerable, and Narcissa married a _ Malfoy _,” Sirius says firmly. “She was all over Riddle.”

“Granted, she’s always all over Riddle. I’ve had to separate them in class because she’s always whispering to him, and I do think that he’s speaking back to her. I’m not sure how but he is,” Remus adds, and Harry thinks he means to be helpful, but really that’s just fucking stressful.

“I don’t...he wanted me to be wearing the locket, and when I wasn’t, I think he was hurt,” Harry mutters. He pulls the locket from his pocket and drops it to the kitchen table with a heavy thud. He looks down at it.

It really is so very pretty.

“And Bellatrix?” Remus prompts.

“She says...that I am...ashamed of him,” Harry mutters.

Remus sighs, long and heavy, like suddenly he can see the problem. He reaches forward to brush Harry’s fringe from his forehead. Harry only ever lets Remus or Sirius do this because when his fringe is brushed up, one can see the only remnant from Harry’s parents’ murder. A falling piece of debris had left the most curious scar, shaped like a lightning bolt.

“Are you, Harry?” Remus murmurs.

Harry shakes his head. “_ No _, that’s not it. I just...I have to tell Lavender. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Sirius nods because he can see the truth in that.

“And...could it be, maybe, if you tell everyone, that means it’s real? And that you’ll have to...tell him about your addiction?” Sirius asks slowly.

Harry flinches.

“Ah.” Harry closes his eyes and devours his eggs and sausage.

Tom doesn’t know anything about Harry. He thinks he does. He thinks he knows what makes Harry tick, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know that for a time, Harry woke up, breathed, _ lived _ for euphoria. He lived to feel nothing and everything all at once. And when he does know that, he won’t want Harry anymore, and it won’t matter that Harry’s allowed to want if who he wants doesn’t want him _ back _.

None of this shit will matter.

Nothing _ matt— _

Harry slams his fork down, and he looks over at Remus and Sirius, wide-eyed. He grabs his locket and slips it into his pocket because he can’t quite manage to put it around his neck yet.

“I...need to speak to Miriam soon,” Harry says firmly.

Sirius nods. “You do. You have an appointment on Tuesday, but we can move it up. Sunday at the soonest. Would you like to see her here?"

“Yes, please,” Harry says quietly. He shakes himself and then sighs, leaning back against his chair and he looks over at them. “Now, can we talk about something _ else _.”

Remus nods once. “There’s a Quidditch game on the wireless in twenty minutes. Up for that?”

“Who’s playing?” Harry asks.

“Chudley Cannons versus Holyhead Harpies,” Sirius says, glancing over at the schedule in the Daily Prophet.

Harry grins. He can just _ imagine _the fight at the Weasleys’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again late because the common cold is kicking my ass but here it is!


	44. MONDAY, 12:37PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Miriam chat.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I'm in their secondhand smoke  
Still just drinking canned Coke  
I don't need a Xanny to feel better  
On designated drives home  
Only one who's not stoned  
Don't give me a Xanny, now or ever"
> 
> -xanny, Billie Eilish

Harry is jittery until the fire turns green. He knows that it’s supposed to start exactly at one, because that’s when Miriam can get out of St. Mungo’s, and he also knows that Miriam is almost always on time unless she’s in the middle of something, but he can’t help it. He bounces his knee up and down, the Slytherin Locket in his fist.

And then the fire turns green and Miriam emerges, her long braid whipping over her shoulder. She’s in her lime green robes, which are so eye-startling that they make Harry laugh just like the very first time that he’d seen them. He means first time, as in, the first time that he’d ever been to St. Mungo’s, when he was given a physical to document what had happened to him at the Dursleys.

He was  _ not  _ laughing when he was shut up in fucking rehab.

“Hey, Miriam,” Harry says.

Miriam joins him, sliding into the second chair. She places her hand on his bouncing knee, stilling him. She looks at him, so serious and sincere.

“Hello, Harry. How are you today?” she asks.

Harry wants to say ‘good’, but he instead, he blurts out, “Tom gave me his only family heirloom, the Slytherin locket, and I got him a stupid quill, and his best friend thinks I’m ashamed of him, but I’m not, I swear. I’m ashamed of myself, and er, how does one disclose that they’re an addict?”

He finally takes a breath after and he feels his cheeks go hot.

Miriam raises a single eyebrow.

“Oh, so we’re going to finally unpack that, then?”

“Unpack what?” Harry asks.

“You self-esteem and how your mother’s family negatively impacted it,” Miriam says briskly. Harry’s face must do something, because Miriam’s eyes soften. She leans back, tapping her chin. “Well, perhaps, we won’t go  _ so  _ deep into it. Now, I’ve been told that you needed to speak with me.”

“I know that we had an appointment, but I...I had a thing,” Harry mutters.

He takes Miriam through it slowly.

He tells Miriam how he and Tom got together. He tells her about his indecision and his nerves. He tells her about their week of hidden bliss. He tells her about Christmas Day when he received the Slytherin locket. He tells her about Tom’s face when he saw Harry wasn’t wearing it. He tells her about what Bellatrix had told him.

And he tells her about that thought.

That thought he tried not to think.

_ ( _ Nothing matters,  _ he doesn’t think. _ )

Miriam nods through it all and remains silent because she’s always been the best listener.

When she finally does speak, she asks, “So, you really fancy this boy, Harry?”

Harry stares at her like she’s stupid for a long moment.

“Yes. I do. He’s...he’s a bit of a prat, you know. He’s an arsehole. But, I...I like him  _ so much _ , Miriam,” Harry confesses, and each time he says, he’s a little less embarrassed of saying it out loud.

“And that’s why you don’t want to tell him. You don’t want him to see you differently. You think he would?” Miriam asks.

Harry looks away. “He...he thinks I’m something that I’m not.”

“What does he think you are?”

“Smart-mouthed, rude, a good duellist, a good Quidditch player, brave, a Gryffindor, and...pretty,” Harry bites out, nose wrinkling as he thinks about all the times Tom has teased him by trying to call him pretty.

“And what do you think you are?” Miriam asks.

Harry’s eyes narrow. “An  _ addict _ , Miriam,” Harry snaps.

“And aren’t you all of those things? You’re a bit of a smart mouth, I’ve seen you be rude, you  _ are  _ a good duellist, a  _ talented  _ Quidditch player, impossibly brave, a Gryffindor, an attractive young man, and, yes, you are an addict,” Miriam says, nodding, and she says it like that last thing isn’t something to be ashamed of. She leans forward to look him in the eye. “You are recovering. You are  _ brave _ .”

“I don’t feel very brave,” Harry scoffs. “And I’m...I’m not. I just...do things when they have to be done.”

Miriam huffs, shaking her head. “Harry, you stand up for your friends. You stand up for anyone that needs to be stood up for. You speak your mind.”

Harry looks away, biting his bottom lip, unsure of himself. He always feels unbalanced when he’s in Miriam’s presence because she trips him down to his very core. She refuses to let him hide from himself or the truth, and he never allows him to do this shit on his own. She demands to be there, every step of the way on his journey.

When Harry doesn’t say anything, Miriam asks, “Why aren’t you wearing the locket? Does it feel like too much?”

This Harry can answer: “It feels...like too much when he doesn’t really know. About who I am.”

Miriam nods. “Do you plan to give the locket back?”

“Er...no?” Harry says.

“Then, you plan to tell him about the fact that you’re a recovering addict,” Miriam says firmly. “You’re just not sure how.”

And Harry feels trapped, suddenly, because his grip tightens in his pocket, on the locket, even as the daunting idea of having to tell Tom hovers over his head like a dementor.

“I...I guess—”

“ So, why is this something you’re so afraid of? What are you afraid of?”

Harry blurts out the crux of the truth: “He tastes like euphoria.”

Miriam stares at him for a long time, and Harry stares back, wondering what she’s thinking. She leans in and takes his hand.

“Okay, Harry. So.” She pauses and shakes her head. “Harry, I’m not sure this has to do with shame. I think this is you reverting back to your...you have a problem with allowing yourself to feel. How do you  _ feel _ ?”

“I...I fancy him. So, so much,” Harry whispers again.

And Miriam still looks a little frustrated, like Harry isn’t quite getting it. But, then, she looks at him, and can sense how much he means it. She pats his hand and squeezes hard.

“Okay, Harry. So, here’s what you’re going to do: be honest.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “What?”

Miriam sighs. “Literally, just tell him. You’re a Gryffindor. You’re the  _ bravest  _ person I know. And there’s nothing more brave than being honest.”


	45. TUESDAY, 1:11 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry goes back to Hogwarts.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Fire on fire would normally kill us  
With this much desire, together, we're winners  
They say that we're out of control and some say we're sinners  
But don't let them ruin our beautiful rhythms  
'Cause when you unfold me and tell me you love me  
And look in my eye  
You are perfection, my only direction  
It's fire on fire, mm  
It's fire on fire"
> 
> -Fire on Fire, Sam Smith

When Harry emerges through the green flames in Professor Dumbledore’s office, he’s not sure why he’s shocked by the headmaster’s presence, but he is.

Dumbledore looks up from his letters and smiles from behind his desk, blue eyes twinkling.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore says, and the way he says it, makes it sound like _ Welcome home. _

Harry smiles. “Just ‘Harry’, Professor,” he says.

Dumbledore’s smile widens and he nods as he beckons Harry forward. Harry drags his trunk behind him and settles into the chair across from the older man. Harry tilts his trunk so that it doesn’t tumble to the ground. Dumbledore pushes a cup of tea towards him and a small bowl.

“Lemon drops?” Professor Dumbledore offers. Harry shakes his head and Dumbledore leans forward, peering at him from behind half-moon glasses. “We didn’t expect an early return from _ you_, Mr. Potter.”

It’s the way he says it that makes Harry grin and say, “Didn’t you?”

Dumbledore quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Well, Professor, today...today is a very important day. For one of your favorite students. I couldn’t miss it,” Harry says. He takes a sip of the tea and his nose wrinkles. It’s earl grey, which he doesn’t mind, but he misses the orange blossom from Tom’s cupboard.

“Now, Harry, I don’t have favorites,” Dumbledore says with a small smile.

“Oh, I think you do, Professor,” Harry retorts just a kindly and Dumbledore chuckles to himself. Harry leans forward to look Dumbledore in the eye. “Professor...I never...thanked you. For believing me. For helping me.”

Harry remembers when Madame Pomfrey saw what had happened to him, when she told Dumbledore, how swiftly Dumbledore had believed him.

Dumbledore looks at him a little sad.

He says, “Oh, Harry, help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.” [1]

Harry smiles and nods. He stands, goes to grab his trunk, but Dumbledore shakes his head.

“Professor?”

“I believe you have a friend named Dobby that would be quite lovely enough to bring your trunk to Gryffindor Tower,” Dumbledore says. And he leans forward, a glint in his eyes. “And this...favorite, that you claim I have, I have it on good authority that he isn’t the largest fan of very important days such as today, and spends it outside chain-smoking.”

Harry snorts and stands, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. He finishes his tea, feels the lukewarm liquid on the tip of his tongue. He looks over at Dumbledore, but he looks wistful, in a strange way.

“Professor…thank you,” Harry says.

Dumbledore inclines his head to Harry’s thanks. Harry turns and bounds out of the Headmaster’s office and down the spiral stairs, throwing his shoulders back as he walks forward. He knows that some might find Hogwarts rather eerie with a majority of the students gone, but Harry still feels at home here. He feels the warmth of the ancient castle wrapping tight around him, welcoming him home.

Even the frigid Scottish winter air does nothing to deter him as he tromps through the snow out of the side of the castle, towards the lake.

He sees Tom rather easily, a blot of black against the tundra.

Harry is a Gryffindor.

He’s self-sacrificing and quick to defend and quicker to fight.

And he is allowed to want. And he wants this boy. He wants this boy to want him back.

To want all of him back.

And he wants this boy to know that he’s not fucking _ashamed _of him.

“Tom.”

Harry shivers, wrapping his cloak around himself tighter. Tom is a crow in a land of ice. Or a viper, all dark scales, too deadly to hide amongst the soft powder white of snow. Tom turns to look at him slowly and stares. Harry can’t quite read his burgundy eyes, but he can see the quirk of the man’s eyebrow. He’s surprised to see him there.

“What?” Tom rasps. His voice sounds hoarse. It’s then that Harry sees him lift one of those fucking ash sticks to his lips, sucking in tobacco smoke.

“Happy birthday,” Harry whispers.

Tom frowns and flicks the cigarette into the snow. He turns fully, flexing his hands in his new leather gloves, flexing them. His eyes flick down to Harry’s chest—he sees the Slytherin locket that hangs around Harry’s neck like a collar or a noose, and Harry wouldn’t mind, choking from it. He wouldn’t.

“Thank you,” Tom says quietly.

Harry lifts his chin and takes a step closer. He counts it as a win that Tom doesn’t step back, even though Harry knows Tom would be too proud to do that anyway. Harry takes another step, and then another until he’s right there in front of Tom.

“I’m here...to spend the rest of the week with you,” Harry says softly. He reaches out slowly, like he’s reaching for a wild animal, and then, his fingers brush against the lapels of Tom’s coat. He digs in and pulls himself closer, burrowing into Tom’s heat. He looks up at him. “I haven’t been...completely honest, and I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“Out of the castle?” Tom asks slowly.

“No,” Harry whispers. He lays his hand out, palm up. An offering.

Tom doesn’t hesitate to lace their fingers together and Harry sighs his relief, holding on tighter. He turns and begins to lead Tom back towards the castle. He feels the weight of Tom’s gaze on his shoulders, but he doesn’t turn to look at him, because Harry doesn’t want to lose his nerve.

He continues into the castle and shivers at the sudden wash of warmth.

Tom’s hand tightens in his.

“You’re wearing my locket,” Tom observes.

“I am,” Harry allows.

“It looks good on you.” Tom sounds smug.

Harry’s lips twitch. “I think you just like your family’s crest around my neck.”

“Maybe I do,” Tom says. There’s a beat of silence. “Where are you taking me?”

“My special place,” Harry says.

For some reason, he’s almost not afraid. He was more afraid when he brought Ginny, Lavender, and Luna for the first time. Except...not quite. Not at all.

When they reach the blank wall on the seventh floor, Tom steps forward.

“The Room of Hidden Things,” he murmurs.

Harry turns to look at him, eyes wide. “You know the Room of Requirement?”

“Is that what you call it?” Tom asks.

Harry frowns. “Well, that’s its _name, _” Harry snaps. “It’s not just a room to hide shit or whatever.”

And as he speaks, he watches the familiar door fade into existence and he sighs when it’s the familiar, simple walnut door. He steps forward, never losing his hold on Tom’s hand, and then he pushes the door open.

It’s his room.

_ His _room.

Full of glass mirror walls, and the grand piano in the corner. The massive fireplace is roaring at the moment. There are differences though.

There’s a duelling platform, for one, along the far wall.

And in the center, where his few floor pillows are, there’s a verifiable nest, full of plush pillows and blankets. And it’s large enough for two people. Harry blushes as he turns to face Tom fully. Tom is still staring at the nest on the ground, and then, Tom looks at him and tries to go in for a kiss. Harry pushes him back, for just a moment.

A moment.

“I have a lot of things to tell you. Things I’ve been afraid to tell you because...it’s going to make you think of me differently,” Harry says slowly.

And Tom’s eyes darken as his gaze falls to Harry’s lips. “We all have our secrets, Harry,” Tom drawls.

Harry snorts.

“Oh, you have deep, dark secrets too?” Harry teases.

Tom’s gaze flits up to meet Harry’s eyes. “Deeper. Darker, too,” he promises.

Harry laughs softly, slowly wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck, pulling himself closer. He stands on his toes because he wants to breathe the same air as this boy

_ (maybe choke on his carbon dioxide while he’s at it) _

and Tom pulls him even closer.

“I’ve never felt like this for another person. Not in my entire life,” Harry says softly.

He leans up and presses a soft kiss to the seam of Tom’s lips. Tom hums against him.

“Needy…” Tom teases, never leaving the kiss.

Harry snorts and pulls back, just a little. He looks up at this boy, reaches up to run his thumb over a sharp cheekbone and then he drags Tom with him, hard and fast until they’re stumbling over one another. Harry drags him down into a kiss and this one isn’t soft.

Tom isn’t capable of being too soft. He kisses rough and slow, languid and hot, tongue brushing over Harry’s, mapping out the space of Harry’s mouth. His big hands drag down over Harry’s shoulders, down his sides, until fingers tighten around Harry’s waist. Harry clings harder, moaning into Tom’s mouth as their lips move together, and then, Harry’s foot catches on something—a pillow, maybe.

And then, they’re tumbling into the pillows, falling onto one another and laughing, heads tossed back.

Tom’s on his back and Harry lies on top of him, feeling no qualms with letting his entire weight fall onto Tom. He leans up, one hand braced on the side of Tom’s head and he looks down into Tom’s eyes.

“I want you,” Harry whispers softly, like a revelation.

“Hmmm?”

“I want you to _ ruin _me.”

Tom stares at him, and then, he’s flipping them, reaching for his wand. He pulls his pale stick and twirls it, Banishing both of their clothes, probably having it folded up by magic as they kiss. Harry gasps at the sudden feeling of hot skin against his, the hot brand of Tom’s cock resting against his inner thigh, and he whines as his own cock twitches. He feels light-headed from how fast his cock hardens, and Tom chases the sound into his mouth.

They kiss, hot and fast, and Tom’s hands slide down to his legs, wrenching them apart so he can fit himself in the vee of Harry’s thighs. Harry moans, hooking his heels into the small of Tom’s back, feeling their cocks slide against one another as Tom rolls his hips.

“Fuck, _Tom_—”

Tom pulls back, dragging his lips down over Harry’s jaw, his neck, biting ownership around the golden locket that Harry feels like a cool compress against his overheated skin. Tom’s tongue tastes the line of gold and Harry’s skin, and Harry moans as he thrusts up, his cock so hard that he thinks he might explode.

“You want it?” Tom breathes against his chest as he kisses down, his hand wide over Harry’s abdomen, spanning over the space of Harry’s jumping abdominal muscles.

Harry blinks, his glasses askew on his face and he moans, nodding.

“A-and...and you want me?” Harry whispers.

Tom presses up again, crawling over Harry’s body, and blanketing him fully. His face is the only thing Harry can see, his burgundy eyes burning like blood. “I want to _ own _you.”

He twists his hands through the air and from the corner of his eye, Harry watches as the room conjures a tub of lube. Harry’s not sure if he’s blushing or if he’s just overheated from being so turned on, but he doesn’t think for long as he turns his head to watch Tom dip two fingers into the lube. Two, _ long, _gorgeous fingers.

And then, Tom slides, slow and languid to kneel between Harry’s spread legs. He reaches to the side with his clean hand and taps Harry’s thigh.

“Lift your hips,” he commands.

Harry hums and lifts his hips, allowing Tom to slot the pillow underneath him. He frowns, nose scrunching.

“I feel...so exposed,” Harry mutters.

“My tongue has been in your arse,” Tom drawls, staring down at him. His lips quirk into a smirk when he sees Harry’s nose wrinkling more. He leans down, and his fingers disappear between his legs.

Harry gasps as Tom sinks one lubed finger into his hole, and he doesn’t stop until he’s two knuckles deep. Harry clenches down, moaning, back arching, and when he finds sense enough to look at Tom, Tom is staring down at him like he’s memorizing everything about him.

“I’ve thought about this,” Tom says, voice rumbling in his chest. Harry is not surprised that Tom is a talker, especially since he’s a braggart anyway. “You..._consume _ my thoughts. I think about how you’d taste, how you’d sound, how you’d feel when you were mine. I want to know every single corner of you. Want to _ own _ every piece of you.” Tom slides a second finger in, then a third, and Harry chokes on the pleasure of being full. “You won’t remember how to _ exist _without me.”

Harry sighs as those fingers get deeper, stretching him wide, brushing something deep inside of him that makes him cry out.

“T-that, right _ there_—”

“Merlin, look at you.” Harry’s eyes are glassy and stares up at Tom. “The Boy Who Lived, and all for _ me_.”

“Fuck...fuck you,” Harry pants. Tom thrusts his fingers in hard. “_Uhn._”

And then, his fingers slip out.

“W-what are you _ doing?” _ Harry demands.

Tom smirks, looking down at him. “Needy,” he drawls. Harry glares up at him and digs his heel into Tom’s back painfully. Tom’s smirk falls and he glares. “_ Brat _.”

Harry whines, reaching up with shaky fingers, because without Tom’s fingers, he feels empty, weak, and hollow.

“Tom…” he whines softly, bringing his fingers over Tom’s chest, digging his nails in.

“Alright, brat, alright.”

And then—oh _ fuck_.

_ (this is euphoria.thisiseuphoria.thisiseuphoria.thisiscloserthaneuphoria. _)

Harry cries out as Tom slides his full length into him. He never stops, instead makes soft sweet noises as he pushes into Harry, one hand hooked under Harry’s jaw, his palm pressing into Harry’s Adam’s apple. Harry feels lightheaded and he isn’t sure if it’s from the fact that he can almost not-breathe or the way he suddenly feels so fucking _ full_.

And then, he feels Tom’s balls against the crease of his arse and Harry’s fingers run down his own chest, reaching for his own erection when he feels Tom hiss more than sees.

“No. That’s for me,” Tom warns.

He pulls back, slowly, and then slams back in, fingers tightening. And, then he begins to fall into a careful rhythm. It’s not enough.

“H-Harder,” Harry snaps.

Tom stills, and when he doesn’t do what Harry demands, Harry reaches up and pulls Tom’s face into his throat, alongside his own hand. Tom bites another mark, where Harry’s jaw meets his neck, at the tip of his fingers, and then, and only then, does he do as Harry commands.

Harry groans, digging his ankles into Tom harder, trying to get him to go deeper, trying to make him go harder. And Harry thinks for a moment about all the rumors and the giggles surrounding Tom’s sexual prowess, and he hates how well-warranted they are, because every time Harry reaches for his own pleasure, Tom is there, giving it to him, and taking his own too.

He knows exactly how Harry wants it.

How Harry _ needs _it.

And Harry can feel his pleasure building, can feel the heat in his gut pulling up more and more.

“Tom..._ Tom _, I’m gonna—”

Harry feels his abdomen get slicker from sweat and pre-cum and he gasps, shuddering underneath Tom. And it’s perfect.

_ (thisisperfecteuphoria.) _

And then, Harry cums, hard and fast, clenching down around Tom, and he feels Tom cum too with a soft hiss, his hand tightening so hard that Harry thinks he might bruise. Harry gathers enough of his wits to watch Tom cum, and, Merlin, he’s beautiful when he cums. He stills and he holds tight to Harry, and when it’s finished, when they’re both finished, Tom collapses on top of Harry, all of his weight keeping him pinned down.

“Are you ruined?” Tom hisses, teasingly, breathless from the fucking.

Harry laughs, eyes rolling into the back of his head as Tom rolls his hips once.

_ (Not yet.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows


	46. WEDNESDAY, 2:07PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a 'duel'.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "What if I'm caught up and it's me you're calling?  
What if I'm lost now 'cause of demons comin'  
When she kissed me, I felt a new freedom or something  
Well, move on"
> 
> -Moments Passed, Dermot Kennedy

“First, we bow.”

Tom sweeps into a low, dramatic bow that he takes far too seriously. He looks up at Harry, eyes trained on his face, and Harry grins, goofily and bows to him. Harry rolls his eyes at the stern look on Tom’s face.

“Are you serious?” Harry sighs as they straighten.

“Deadly.”

“It’s just _ practice,_” Harry whinges, and then, he’s nearly singed with a furious _ Incendio_. “Arsehole!”

“The duel has started!” Tom says.

And then, it’s an exchange of spells again, a dance. Harry falls into easily, dodging hex, returning it for a jinx. It’s so different from when the others are around. Tom and Harry don’t ever really get a chance to practice, not when they spend so much of their time focused on the improvement of the others in the duelling club.

They’ve chosen to only do non-verbal spells. It’s the type of high-level duelling that Tom expects the pair of them to face, and he thinks that Harry’s weak in that aspect.

Harry will show him how _not-weak, _he is.

_ Fumos Duo, _he casts with a wave of his wand, and dark smoke billows from his wand, obscuring both of their visions.

Tom falls silent almost immediately, and Harry curses under his breath. He curses again when he narrowly dodges a sharp jet of white. He holds his breath as he twists through the dark smoke, doing his very best not to make a single sound. Harry can hear something slow and heavy sliding along the floor and he gasps when a snake suddenly lunges out of the smoke, right at his face.

_ Vipera Evanesco, _he casts, utilizing one of the few Transfiguration spells that Hermione had successfully drilled into his head on account of her finding snakes rather creepy.

The snake Vanishes with a crackling sound and then, Harry ducks another spell as the sound of the spell alerts Tom to his presence.

_ Ventus Tria, _ Harry casts, sending a blast of wind through the smoke, dissipating it and revealing Tom at the end of the duelling platform, an interesting smile on his face. Tom winks at Harry as he tosses another spell, and Harry swiftly follows with a duck, and then, _ Everte Statum. _

A Shield Charm raises around Tom and Harry grunts when his spell only has the effect of making Tom take a step back, versus throwing him off the fucking platform.

“Come now, Harry. Are you just going to keep dodging my spells or are you going to make an _ effort_?” Tom teases in that stupid voice that he knows just pisses Harry off more.

“Fuck _ off_,” Harry hisses and then he throws an errant _ Stupefy_.

Almost immediately, Tom spins in a circle, whipping his wand around, raising a ring of blue flames around him. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, because he’s choking on the magic of it all, a rich Darkness that he can feel bone-deep. Harry’s always been sensitive to Dark magic, and there’s speculation about it.

Some Healers think that he was born with it. Harry knows, through Sirius and Remus, that Dumbledore thinks it’s because he was exposed to it at such a young age with his parents’ murders.

But, he can taste this spell on his tongue and it’s heady.

“What...what spell is this?” he whispers.

Tom smirks. “_Protego Diabolica_. I’ve never used it, only read the theory, but it’s impressive, isn’t it?” Tom brags, because he can’t help it. “It refuses the entrance to anyone disloyal to the caster. Are you disloyal, Harry?”

“You’re such a _ prat_,” Harry groans, and then, he twists his wand and lashes out like he’s seen Bellatrix do a few times. He hasn’t ever tried it either, though he’s heard her use the incantation and he watches in wonder as his wand turns into a whip and it flicks out, slicing across Tom’s jaw.

Tom’s eyes widen as he lifts his fingers to his jaw, and pulls away, looking down at the droplets of blood.

“What—” Tom hisses. Then, he sneers, and snarls. He slashes his wand down in rage, letting out a purple jet.

And then, Harry raises his wand, casting an _ Expelliarmus_.

The two spells meet.

And the world around them explodes.

Harry gasps as his wand begins to vibrate in his grip. The two spells had turned into a beam of solid gold light, connecting the tips of the wands. Harry looks for Tom, and his eyes widen when he sees that Tom’s Dark spell has dissipated, vanishing into nothingness. He meets Tom’s gaze and they stare at one another as the golden thread starts to splinter, turning into thousands of tiny gold beams until it forms a cage around them.

Harry watches as phantom flames spring from Tom’s wand, a strange echo of _ Protego Diabolica _from just minutes ago. Harry’s eyes narrow.

“Let go, Harry,” Tom whispers as the echoes get faster and faster, the spells from their duel spitting out from Tom’s wand—the false snake and the Shield Charm, and the very first spell that Harry wasn’t sure of. “Harry_, let go! _”

Harry jerks backs and the connection shatters.

He gasps as he nearly falls to his knees, bending forward to catch his breath.

He looks up at Tom. “What was _that _?” he demands. “What spell was that?”

Tom is staring at something far away. His lips move, but Harry doesn’t hear what he says.

“What was that?” Harry repeats.

“Priori Incantatem,” Tom mutters. He strides down the duelling platform and slowly gets down to his knees in front of Harry, dragging him down until they’re kneeling in front of one another, close enough that their breaths mingle. “Harry, what’s your wand core?”

“What? Why?” Harry blurts out.

Tom rolls his eyes, because, obviously, he doesn’t think Harry’s getting it fast enough, and honestly, Harry fucking _ isn’t. _

“When I went to Ollivander’s, I tried nearly every single wand in that shop. And when I finally got my wand, he said that it was a rare kind of wand, indeed,” Tom says, and the way he says it makes Harry think that’s he recounting it word for word. Like that day means something beyond just being the day he finally got a wand. “He said: ‘Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Phoenix feather. You will do great things with this wand. Perhaps, terrible. But, great’. I researched my wand afterward. I wanted to know what made him say that.”

“And what did you find?” Harry asks.

“Yew is said to endow the possessor with the power of life and death. It’s a fearsome wood. A conductor of curses. Dark magic. _ Death magic_,” Tom whispers and Harry shivers, somehow afraid suddenly. Tom reaches forward, his fingers curling around Harry’s jaw. “What is your wand?”

“Holly. Eleven inches. Phoenix feather, too,” Harry says, softly.

Tom nods sagely. “Holly protects from evil. It’s a symbol of good and works well with those that need help overcoming anger. Are you angry, Harry?” Tom says, almost teasing. Harry’s eyes narrow, and Tom laughs softly, and Harry can’t taste that laugh on his tongue. “What did he say to _ you _?”

And Harry remembers the day he went into the shop too.

He remembers trying nearly every wand, and then he remembers Ollivander whispering, _ I wonder_. _ Curious...very curious_.

He tells Tom that. “And I said… ‘what’s curious?’ He said ‘I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather--just one other. It’s very curious indeed that _ you _should be destined for this wand when its brother has a destiny just as great as yours’.”

As he speaks, his gaze goes down to their knees pressing together.

And he looks up at Tom, from under the fringe of his lashes. “Our wands are brothers, then.”

“This proves it, then,” Tom murmurs as he leans up and forward, his big hand like a brand on Harry’s cheek. He leans in, brushing his nose against the side of Harry’s, taking a deep breath.

Harry snorts. “Proves what.”

“That you’re mine. I always knew you were mine,” Tom kisses into his mouth.

And Harry gives in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!
> 
> Look forward to the next chapter! The BIG chapter, tonight!


	47. WEDNESDAY, 8:27PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there's a secret for a secret.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "'Cause I loved ya  
Does that mean nothing to you now?  
I loved ya  
Get me back on homely ground  
She said, "Oh, I know that love is all about the wind  
How it can hold me up and kill me in the end"  
Still I loved it  
Does that mean nothing to you now?"
> 
> -Moments Passed, Dermot Kennedy

“I don’t take many baths,” Harry says as he stares at his own knees peeking out from the frothy suds. He pulls his knees closer to his chest, frowning down. Tom stares back at him, smirking where he’s sitting comfortably against the lip of the tub, his arms spread and supported on the edge. “Why are we in this tiny bath?”

“It’s what the Room conjured up,” Tom says lazily, waving his fingers at the rest of the Room of Requirement.

Harry glares. “Isn’t there a prefect bathroom? I heard the bathtub is _ enormous_,” Harry accuses.

“I don’t know. Who told you that?” Tom asks, like he’s trying to be innocent.

Harry rolls his eyes. “My best friends are prefects, you arse.”

Tom almost grins now, and it softens Harry a lot, because in the moments that Tom really smiles, he looks like a boy. He looks his age. Harry leans forward, crooking a finger forward and Tom leans in. They can just get close enough that Harry can press a peck to his lips before he leans back and smiles, sinking deeper into the water.

Tom stares at him for a long time.

“Why did you come back?” Tom asks.

Harry stares at him for a long time.

He knows. It’s time.

“Because you don’t know me like you think you know me. And you should,” Harry says, slowly.

“Are you talking about your secrets, then?”

Harry nods. “Yes. And yours, I suppose. The deeper, darker ones,” he says with a teasing smile that slowly falters when he sees that Tom isn’t smiling back at him.

The deeper, darker secrets are real, then.

Tom hums. “Why don’t we do a trade,” he suggests. “A secret for a secret.”

“A secret for a secret,” Harry agrees softly. He leans forward in the water, staring at Tom for a long time. Tom stares back at him, unflinching in all ways. Harry feels like he’s been stripped down, despite being naked in the bath. He feels like Tom is staring _ into _him. It’s intimate. “I’ll go first: I grew up with Muggles.”

“Not a secret,” Tom counters.

“They weren’t nice,” Harry finishes, voice flat.

Tom hums, leaning back against the lip of the tub. He nods, understanding.

“I grew up in an orphanage with Muggles,” Tom says. His eyes go brighter for just a moment, more crimson than burgundy. “They weren’t nice either.”

Harry pulls his fingers back and forth through the water. The bubbles are slowly disappearing, revealing more and more skin. He looks at his pruney fingers, but he doesn’t want to go anywhere. He wants to stay in this warm water forever.

“They were my mother’s family. My Aunt Petunia was her sister. She married Uncle Vernon and they had Dudley. They were unpleasant,” Harry says softly.

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Unpleasant how?”

“I responded to ‘freak’ just as often as I responded to ‘Harry’,” Harry says swiftly. He looks up at Tom through the fringe of his eyelashes. He presses his lips into a thin line. “I cleaned the whole house, but I lived in the cupboard. I did the cooking, but I got scraps. My vision is poor because when I wasn’t working, I was locked under the stairs. The spiders were my friends.”

Harry looks at Tom, searching his face for rage. He sees it in the curl of Tom’s lips, in the way his knuckles go white on the porcelain lip of the tub. Harry lifts his foot out of the water and perches it on top of Tom’s bent legs, balanced on his knee.

“When I found out that Sirius wanted me, I didn’t believe it,” Harry says. “I couldn’t believe anyone would _ want _me, not after being so Goddamn unwanted for so long. And I didn’t think I was allowed to want to be with him back. I didn’t...I’m not good at wanting things. I always think it’s too much.”

“You’re unselfish. To a fault,” Tom says, his voice cold, and Harry knows him enough to know that he’s not being cold towards him, but to the Muggles that harmed Harry.

“And it didn’t help that...that no one believed me at first. Except for Madame Pomfrey. Because she saw my ribs and the bruises when I first got back into school,” Harry says. He sees the rage flash over Tom’s face and he leans forward, shaking his head. “No...they didn’t...they didn’t really hit me. Just a shove here and there, and I...I was small. I fell to the ground. Into doorframes.”

“Those filthy Muggles shouldn’t have been _touching _you at all,” Tom hisses.

Harry sighs, shaking his head.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It _ does_. Look what they did to you,” Tom spits.

And Harry thinks about it.

What the Dursleys did to him.

Vernon Dursley taught him what meaty fists felt like and what the sound of a shout could do to the blood of a five-year-old.

Petunia Dursley taught him to respond to a whistle and that burns came with the process, and one could always ignore the scent of their own burning skin if they tried hard enough.

Dudley Dursley taught him how to _ run. _

“They made me believe that I didn’t deserve good things,” Harry says softly.

“You deserve the world. I’d burn the world and give it to you,” Tom snarls, and Harry knows he means it, and he thinks that Tom _ could _do it if he wanted to.

And there’s something heady about that kind of devotion. And something terrible about it too.

“Come on now, your turn,” Harry says.

Tom frowns, staring at him. “You want to know about the orphanage.”

“You can tell me about it.”

Tom leans back in the bath, and for a moment, Harry thinks he’s going to rescind the deal. Or that he’s going to lie. And then, Tom leans forward, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not like you,” Tom says. Harry raises an eyebrow, waiting for Tom to continue. “_Forgiving_. Soft.”

“Is that what I am?” Harry throws back.

Tom looks away; his fingers twitch like he wants a cigarette, and Harry congratulates himself as he slowly learns Tom’s tells.

“I grew up with Muggles too. And I _ despised _them. It was an orphanage. A filthy orphanage in the middle of London’s shittiest neighborhood. I was born there. Mrs. Cole used to say that I’d die there too,” Tom spits, his lips curling into a sneer. “She’d say that after the priests left every time they tried to have me exorcised. They tried that until I was nine and my accidental magic sent the priests away after they screamed at her that I needed to be put down. The Antichrist. That’s what they thought I was.”

Harry’s eyes widen with each word until he’s sure they’re the size of dinner plates.

“That’s...horrible,” he breathes.

Tom rolls his eyes. “It was _annoying_. Mrs. Cole never stopped reminding me that I was a worthless child, just as worthless as my stupid mother who practically died on their doorstep. I used to think that it was impossible that she was a witch. After all, she wouldn’t have died. But, no, she was stupid. And inbred. And…” Tom trails off, eyes narrowing. He turns his gaze back to Harry, and there’s something in his gaze, dark and wounded that makes Harry want to kiss the hidden hurt away. “I’ve told you my secret. No one knows about the exorcisms.”

Harry nods. He bites his bottom lip because it’s now or never. He wants this boy more than ever after this secret. He opens his mouth and then closes it.

“There was something you wanted to tell me. Because you claimed I didn’t know you,” Tom says, as if it means nothing. “I told you my secret was deeper, darker.”

“I doubt it,” Harry drawls.

Tom smirks. “Would you like to try me?”

Harry rises to the challenge. “On three, then.”

“Fine,” Tom says with a shrug, the water sloshing around him. “Three.”

‘Two,” Harry returns.

“One,” Tom says.

Then, there’s a beat of silence. And then, they both speak at the same time:

“I was an addict.”

“I almost killed a boy.”

Harry stares across the water. Tom stares back like he doesn’t know him.

“Explain,” they both bark at the same time.

Neither of them laughs. Harry leans forward, never breaking eye contact with this boy, this almost-murderer.

“I was—_am _an addict. I don’t think you ever stop being an addict. According to the reading material that I was made to read during my summer in rehab at St. Mungo’s, after my fourth year,” Harry says, his lips curling into a cracked smile.

“And what are you addicted to?” Tom asks.

“Ah-ah, you _ first_,” Harry taunts.

Tom’s eyes narrow and Harry wonders if he’s going to push or give. Because that’s what they are. They’re two impressive forces, clashing again and again, neither budging unless they will it so. It’s a take-and-take kind of relationship and Harry lives for it.

“When I was a child, I knew I was special,” Tom says softly. “I could make things move without touching them. I could make animals do what I wanted them to do, without training them. I could make bad things happen to people who annoyed me. I could make them hurt if I wanted to.” [1]

“And you wanted to make them hurt?”

Tom leans forward. “So, I made them _ hurt_.”

Harry runs his fingers through the suds, considering that. He thinks about a young Tom Riddle who learned how to hurt people early, learned to make them hurt before they could hurt him. He thinks of a Tom Riddle that was told he was unworthy. Not _ special. _

How could someone look at this boy and not realize how extraordinary he was?

“What. Did. You. _ Do_?” Harry enunciates.

Tom doesn’t look sorry as he lays the scene of a seaside trip. He’d been uncharacteristically good and Mrs. Cole thought that he deserved to go too. He remembers on the bus ride up, he’d sat in the back and read until Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop got bored and decided to bother him.

“They were unkind,” Tom says flatly. That’s all he’ll say on that matter. He continues.

They got to the seaside and were told that they had a curfew.

Tom had smiled and taken Amy and Dennis’ hands and promised that they were going to have fun.

And he had had _ fun. _

“After that, no one ever bothered me again. Dennis got it worse. He’d always been...unkind. He was mute for a long time. Still has episodes. I wonder if he still does. I haven’t been back to the orphanage in...years,” Tom says. He doesn’t sound sorry.

Harry knows better than to ask him if he is, but he can’t help himself.

“Do you regret it?” he asks.

“I don’t regret things. Especially not things I mean to do.”

Tom says it without fear that Harry will run away. He knows that he has Harry.

Harry hopes he has him.

“Thank you for telling me,” Harry says softly. And then: “I’m an addict.”

“To what?” Tom asks evenly.

“Oh, what _ aren’t _I addicted to?” Harry finally confesses with a smile.

He wonders if this is what the Catholics feel—when they confess, do they feel absolved? Or does it all just rush back?

Tom’s eyes narrow. “Do explain.”

“It started with Calming Draughts. The anxiety leading up to my adoption was quite...it was all mad, wasn’t it?” Harry asks with a quiet laugh. He can laugh at this now, almost. “Madame Pomfrey prescribed that. And then...then, she realized that maybe it wasn’t enough. She saw how skinny I was. She saw how I flinched at loud noises. So, she recommended that I see a Mind Healer. That’s part of why I play the piano. They thought that it would be helpful, during treatment.”

“The _ potions_, Harry,” Tom barks, reminding him not to stray.

Harry hums and looks away. He wonders how he’d look, smoking a cigarette, if he’d look as relaxed as Tom or whether he’d choke over his own fire.

“Well, they diagnosed me with a _ host _of things,” Harry says dryly. “Anxiety, depression...the occasional bout of PTSD. And with those things, came the medications. Draught of Peace. Dissociative Diminishing Tincture. But...oh I _ loved _euphoria. The Euphoria Elixir.”

Even saying it, Harry feels himself shiver. Sometimes, he can taste the phantom of it on his tongue, and he pushes it from his mind because he _wants_. He wants to drown in euphoria.

“What variation did you take?” Tom asks.

Harry isn't surprised that Tom knows all about the Euphoria Elixir and its seven variations. He's always been good at everything. He got at least 12 OWLs. No, Harry isn't surprised at all.

“Serotonin and GABA,” Harry sighs, leaning his head back. He drags his toes up Tom’s leg, props his heel on the other boy’s knee. “That one I liked too much.” [1]

“You have to go to an apothecary for those,” Tom insists.

Harry smirks; there is no humor in it, but he has to or he thinks he might start to cry. “Do you want another secret, Tom?” he asks. He doesn’t wait. “I have an Invisibility Cloak, and I am very much a rulebreaker.”

“When did they find out?”

“The end of my fourth year. Moony found all of the extra empty bottles. And they found me...so high that I didn’t know my name. I was spewing sick everywhere, and I _ smiled _ the whole time,” Harry laughs, even though no one ever laughs because he knows...he knows that Hermione had been there. Hermione had _seen _—“They threw me into rehab the next day. I stayed there for the summer.”

“And how long…” Tom trails off like he’s not sure how to ask.

“How long have I been sober?” Harry asks. “Since that day, I guess. My fifth year, I spoke with my Mind Healer every day. Now, we just...check in when I need to. Or I speak with Madame Pomfrey. ”

He leans back in the tub, and stares across the water at Tom, waits for him to judge him.

He waits for Tom to get out of the tub, to look at him differently now that he knows that Harry spent at least a year of his life entirely numb. He waits for him to not want him and he turns away, staring out across the Room of Requirement instead of looking at Tom.

And then, he feels a hand pull his out of the water, lifting it and then, Harry feels lips against his knuckles.

He looks back. Tom stares at him with unflinching eyes.

“One more secret, Harry,” Tom says.

Harry nods. “A-alright. One more,” he whispers.

“Your first year. You gave me a Chocolate Frog, and I gave you one back. That was the first present that I’ve ever gotten,” Tom says, his voice quiet and gentle.

And he knows, Harry _ knows _that Tom isn’t going to leave him. Not for this.

Harry shifts in the water abruptly, crawling forward between Tom’s legs. Water sloshes onto the ground, creating puddles everywhere. Harry brushes his nose against Tom’s, and finally, he comes into focus. Tom doesn’t look away from him, just as unflinching.

And against Tom’s lips, Harry whispers, “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] http://www.hogwartsishere.com/courses/PTNS-501/lesson/722/
> 
> Also, thank you for 600 KUDOS! I just noticed! Thank you all!


	48. THURSDAY, 11:03PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the question is posed: what are you going to do for the rest of your life?
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Seven times again when you are not awake  
Seven times the flame, too much to take  
The sky burns red against your skin  
The world we know turns in the wind  
Coming like a hurricane, I take it in real slow  
The world is spinning like a weathervane  
Fragile and composed  
I am breaking down again  
I am aching now to let you in"
> 
> -Hurricane, Fleurie

They’ve moved their nest closer to the fire now.

Harry doesn’t mind being naked, wrapped in blankets and what not. Tom doesn’t mind it either. Harry burrows closer into his side, sighing and pressing his nose into the hollow of Tom’s collarbone. He looks up at him. Tom rests on one elbow, sipping a glass of elderflower wine, draining the glass before he sets it to the side.

Harry leans up, kissing the acid from his tongue. He pulls back, smiling, slowly.

“What are you going to be when you grow up?” he asks again, a callback to the last time it was just them. Tom rolls his eyes, laying back against the mountains of pillows. “No...seriously, not what you want. What are you going to _ be _. Because everyone knows what you want, but I’ve never heard you say it. Tell me.”

Tom hums, nodding. He stares into the flames, a complicated expression on his face.

“I imagine that I’ll work for the Ministry. I have offers. I’ll rise quickly in the ranks and becoming the youngest Minister for Magic in history,” Tom says, short and clipped, like these are the things that are expected of him, and he doesn’t exactly mind it.

“Okay. Good. Then, how do you _ want _to get there? What do you want for yourself?” Harry challenges.

Tom looks like he’s seriously considering the question for a long moment. He frowns into the fire and nods as he considers it all. Harry reaches up, pushing Tom’s hair from his face where it’s loose and growing a little long. He rubs his face into Tom’s skin, hopes to sink into him.

“I want to be great. I want to discover lost knowledge and find the deep magic. I want greatness and immortality,” Tom says.

Harry hums.

He’s never wanted things like that for himself. He can’t imagine having the responsibilities of the world on his shoulder. He thinks he could manage it with some sheer dumb luck and the help of his friends, but Harry had never wanted eternal glory, the kind that Tom craves. Harry thinks he’d be satisfied with something much less.

“What do you want for yourself?” Tom asks.

Harry closes his eyes and sighs. “I like duelling. I like _ teaching _ duelling. And I could do that. I’d _ want _to do that. Live in London for a few years. And then, when I get tired of London, I think I’d like to live in a cottage. Not in Godric’s Hollow, that’s rather grim, isn’t it? But, maybe another wizarding village.”

Tom frowns down at him. “You could be great. You’re my equal,” Tom says, and Harry knows Tom enough to recognize it for the compliment that it truly is.

“Maybe. But, I don’t want to be. You want your name everywhere. You want people to love you. People to fear you. But, I’m tired of seeing my name in print,” Harry says. From the moment that he’d shown up in the wizarding world, people had known his name—first for his parents’ murder, then for his adoption case. He’s rather tired of people speaking about him, instead of to him.

Tom looks down at him like he doesn’t quite understand him.

“You think I’m an idiot?” Harry asks with a dry smile.

“I don’t understand you,” Tom says, sounding almost frustrated.

Harry snorts, kissing Tom’s shoulder. “You never will. Not even a thousand years,” Harry says. He pauses, stiffening, because even if it’s a hyperbole, ‘years’ implies that Harry thinks this will last that long, and Tom’s relationships aren’t known for their longevity.

“You’re mine, Harry Potter. I don’t intend to let you go,” Tom drawls, like he can read Harry’s mind. He wraps one arm around Harry’s back, tugs him in tighter, and Harry tosses a thigh over the other boy, sinking deeper into the heat of him, his eyelids beginning to droop.

He’s exhausted.

That happens when two boys fuck as often as they duel.

“I don’t want to be a secret anymore,” Harry sighs.

“We don’t have to be.”

“I need to tell Lavender. She should hear it from me. Not through a letter or any of the others on Defence Squad. From me,” Harry says, but even after all of this, he can’t find it in himself to be afraid. He’s not afraid. Lavender will understand, he thinks.

She’s a romantic. She’ll get it.

“Is that a good idea? The competition arrives on Sunday. Do you think it will distract her?” Tom challenges, because he doesn’t give a damn about Lavender’s feelings. He wants to win this duelling competition; it’s his last year to qualify.

“When do you have her competing? The first match?” Harry asks.

Tom hums. “I haven’t finalized the brackets, but I believe that she’ll be duelling against Ilvermorny in the first match.”

“I’ll tell her then,” Harry decides. He’ll tell her a few days before so she can process it and then she’ll have something to focus on. Despite her original intention for joining the duelling club, she’s taken to it and learning. Harry hums. “Tell me the pairings for the first bracket.”

“It’s myself and Bellatrix as my second. Second match will be doubles, Brown and Rabastan. Third match will be Granger as primary and Rosier as second.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I’m not duelling?” he asks.

“My secret weapon? Oh no. We’re saving you as a _ surprise _against Durmstrang in the final round.”

“You’re so sure we’ll make it?” Harry teases.

Tom smirks. “_Without _ a doubt_._”


	49. FRIDAY, 11:37AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which croissants are eaten.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Oh, and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be  
Right in front of me, talk some sense to me  
And I found love where it wasn't supposed to be  
Right in front of me, talk some sense to me"
> 
> -I Found, Amber Run

Harry tears at the fresh croissants and sighs as he feels the buttery bread practically melt on his tongues. He moans around the mouthful of food, and then goes to tear another piece when he catches Tom’s eyes. Tom is staring at him, caught between amusement and arousal.

“What?” Harry mumbles around a mouthful of croissant.

“I knew you’d like the croissants,” Tom says with a smirk.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Where did you even get croissants from? Dobby says they don’t make croissants.”

Dobby’s been bringing them food every day. Harry wonders if Dumbledore wonders where they are, but he doesn’t think he does. It’s Hogwarts and Dumbledore’s the Headmaster. He _ must _have some knowledge about where they are.

Harry had been afraid to introduce Tom and Dobby. Tom isn’t shy when it comes to acknowledging who his inferiors are. But, he’d seemed to sense how much it meant to Harry, and so he’d been as cordial as Tom could manage. Dobby didn’t take offense, because Dobby’s never offended by anything.

“I sent your house elf to France, of course.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “You _ didn’t_. Tom!” Harry chastises, shoving Tom in the shoulder.

Tom stares at him, nostrils flaring. “What?” he demands. “He’s a house elf. House elf magic should be utilized for what their masters want.”

“I’m _ not _his master,” Harry warns with a bark. “He’s a house elf and he’s paid by Dumbledore. A Galleon a week.”

Tom stares across the breakfast spread, unimpressed. His legs are folded underneath him and he taps his knee, impatiently, as he regards Harry, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next. His expression smooths out and he leans forward, placating. Harry snorts.

“I’m—”

“You’re not sorry. You don’t regret things,” Harry interrupts before Tom can tell a lie. Tom scowls at him and Harry lets out a bark of a laugh. “I supposed...did you command him or did you ask?”

“I _ asked._ He’s a free elf, as you said,” Tom sneers.

“Well...that’s alright. He would’ve said no, if he had to,” Harry says, even though he’s not sure if that’s true. He makes a note to ask Dobby if it was alright, later on. And maybe he’ll spend some extra time with the house elf to show his appreciation.

“I’m sure,” Tom says sharply. He finishes his own croissant, takes a sip of his God-forsaken coffee, and Merlin, Harry _ hates _coffee. Tom looks around the Room of Requirement, cataloguing it again. His eyes flit over the piano again, as it has each time.

He still hasn’t said anything.

He’s waiting for Harry to explain.

So, he does.

“I play the piano,” Harry says, his lips tilting into a small smirk. “It was part of my therapy. Pre-rehab. Dropped it when I started getting high regularly. And then, it became a routine in rehab. I’ve started it up again.”

Tom nods. “There weren’t opportunities for me to play an instrument in the orphanage.”

“Have you ever wanted to play an instrument?” Harry asks.

Tom hums. “I’ve always thought the violin had a lovely tone,” Tom says and Harry rolls his eyes as he grunts and slowly stands to his feet.

He offers his hand down to Tom. Tom’s nose wrinkles.

“Come on, you arse. I want to play for you,” Harry insists, and that gets Tom to stand to his feet, gracefully and without Harry’s help. Only then does he take Harry’s hand, leading _ him _towards the piano in the corner.

Harry sighs as he sits at the piano, pushing open the lid. He cracks his fingers, flexing them and staring down at the ivory keys. Tom hums as he slowly slides to sit on the piano bench too, staring at the keys. Then, he turns to Harry expectantly.

Harry’s lips twitch. “How much do you pay?” he asks.

“_You _offered to play for me,” Tom protests.

“Hmm only because I know you _ want _me to. So, how much do you pay?” Harry drawls. He laughs when Tom slides an arm around his waist, tugging him closer, his lips brushing against Harry’s hairline. “A kiss for a song? I usually take Galleons…”

“Little _ brat_,” Tom mutters against his skin.

Harry laughs and elbows him away. “Alright, alright, give me some space,” Harry says and he frowns down at the keys, cracking his fingers.

And then he begins to [play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCtixpIWBto).

Harry won’t lie and say he’s not playing to impress.

He knows anything simple won’t be impressive.

It starts out slow with deep, heavy chords, and it picks up, until his fingers dance across the lower register of the piano until he’s reaching across Tom’s body to play the higher notes. He falls into the rhythm of it, feels his fingers brush against familiar keys. He hasn’t played like this in a long time, but he feels it all in his marrow, in his muscle, and in some ways—the tiny, infinite ways that don’t matter—it’s a bit like Quidditch.

It’s focus and falling. It’s moving quicker than lightning, fingers more dexterous than they might appear at first. It makes Harry _ feel, _and despite the somber richness of the music, he feels happier than he has in a long time. His fingers scatter down the keyboard and then he falls in that heavy crescendo and the music slows.

And then, it ends.

Harry is breathing heavily by that time it’s over, a bewildered smile tugging at his lips.

He looks up at Tom, eyes wild, and he falters.

Tom stares at him like he is something unreal. Like Harry is something that he can’t possibly touch. Or something that he is _ allowed _ to touch, and Tom can believe that he has that right. That _ privilege_.

“You are beautiful, darling,” Tom murmurs, reaching two fingers to direct Harry’s jaw to just the right angle so that he can press a kiss right where Harry’s jaw meets his neck, over his pulse.

Harry gasps, fingers twitching, flying to hover over Tom’s shoulders, just as Tom pulls back to look at him.

“I...I only play when I feel good,” Harry admits softly. “It was...it was supposed to help make me feel good, but I only do it when I _ do _feel good, because I don’t want to associate it with bad things.”

Tom nods and he drags him closer again until Harry has to turn and throw his legs over Tom’s. He wraps an arm around Tom’s shoulders and presses closer and closer until he’s almost in Tom’s lap.

“Do you consider me a good thing?” Tom asks.

Harry doesn’t take long to answer.

“I think you’re the _ best _thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the link when Harry begins to play, in case it didn't work: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCtixpIWBto
> 
> This chapter is for the magical Orchestra AU I'll probs never write but have always wanted to!


	50. SUNDAY, 1:27PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which life resumes and a competition begins.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Jumpman, Jumpman, Jumpman, them boys up to somethin'  
They just spent like two or three weeks out the country  
Them boys up to somethin', they just not just bluffin'"
> 
> -Jumpman, Drake & Future

“Hello, Hary.”

“There you are, mate!”

“Hello, fearless Captain!”

“HARRY!” Lavender is a bullet through the air, throwing herself forward, and Harry just barely manages to open his arms to catch her. He grabs her, hugging her tight, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. She looks up at him, grinning. “Had a happy Christmas?”

“The happiest,” Harry says. He doesn’t even feel like he’s lying. He looks over Lavender’s head at the others—Ginny, Luna, and Ron—who all grin at him, making grabby hands. And then, just past them is Hermione, who waits, the most patient of them all. “How was the rest of you lot’s Christmas?”

They all attempt to speak over one another except for Hermione who is still silent.

Harry releases Lavender and turns to the others, greeting them with grins and a recounting of their holidays. Harry nods, quite capable of deciphering the Weasleys as they talk over one another, and he pretends to know exactly what Luna’s talking about when she speaks about her and her father’s mini-expedition. He even promises Lavender that he’ll look at the massive clothing haul she acquired, and he thinks maybe that’s when he’ll tell her.

Then, he turns to Hermione. Last.

“Habibi,” she murmurs, reaching out a hand to him.

Harry goes in for a hug, wrapping himself around her, tugging her in tight. “Hermione,” he says just as solemnly, and she hugs him back so tight it almost hurts. He pulls back, grinning almost mockingly. “Thanks for the homework planner. It’s the thought that counts.”

“Thanks for the books. Pity I’ve already got them. It’s the thought that counts,” Hermione mocks.

Harry squawks. “You don’t! I checked!”

Hermione laughs and she hugs him tight. “I’m glad you had a good holiday,” she murmurs into his shoulder until she unwinds from him and turns to look at everyone else. “How long have you been back?”

“A while,” Harry says, not exactly lying. He shrugs and turns to look at the decent crowd that’s already forming on the stairs. Most of the Entrance Hall is empty, except for where some of the last train-takers are straggling in.

Everyone is stuffed tight, all awaiting the arrival of the schools.

Harry leans into the bannister and looks across the stairs where the rest of the Slytherins are. Tom looks up almost immediately and nods at him, tilting his head to the blatant empty space just in front of the bottom stairs where most of the first years sit.

“We’ll stand there on Tom’s queue, I expect,” Harry says.

Lavender catches it immediately. “ ‘Tom’? Finally realizing that he’s not the _ devil, _then?” Lavender asks.

“He’s alright,” Harry says firmly.

Hermione rolls her eyes. Hard.

Lavender straightens, looking far too smug. She waves at Tom and his Death Eaters, unabashedly enthusiastic. Rabastan even waves back and manages to not look like he’s making fun of her. It takes Harry at least thirty seconds to realize he’s _ not _making fun of her.

Harry turns away from _ that _because Merlin, he doesn’t want to analyze that, and instead looks to the Aurors lining the Entrance Hall, some even murmuring different charm spells. Harry knows that it’s because eventually, for the finals, the Minister and other foreign ambassadors will show face. He also knows that they’re the reason Remus has extra lines on his face, even with the full moon approaching.

“Let me...check on Remus for a minute,” Harry says, sidling away from Remus where he’s caught in a _ very _mild-mannered disagreement with someone from the press, an Auror, and Flitwick. “Ah, Remus?”

Remus looks relieved as he pulls away, and almost immediately Harry sees that it was _ Remus _keeping the disagreement as low-tension as possible. Flitwick is positively red in the face. Harry recognizes the press agent as fucking Rita Skeeter’s photographer. Remus sighs, reaching for Harry and pulling him into a side-hug.

“Oh, Harry, I hope you’re not angry that I wish that this _ wasn’t _happening here,” Remus sighs.

“I’d be angry if I disagreed,” Harry says with a snort, shaking his head. Remus grins down at him. “What’s going on?”

“We’re waiting on the last school now. Ilvermorny is here, if Portkey-lagged. Beauxbatons, Castelobruxo, and Mahoutokuro are by the lake. Koldovstoretz is here. Uagadou, here. We’re waiting for last year’s champions now,” Remus says, sounding _ exhausted. _

“Durmstrang isn’t here?”

Harry jumps. He hadn’t realized that Tom was right _ fucking _behind him.

“You prick!” Harry hisses, elbowing Tom in the stomach.

Tom grunts, his lips still twitching. He goes to reach for Harry’s shoulders, then seems to think better of it. Harry grabs Tom’s right hand and lets it settle on his own shoulder. Tom squeezes down. Harry tries not to think about

“No, Durmstrang isn’t here yet,” Remus says. He frowns as he looks over at a Ministry official that’s joined the Auror and Flitwick. “I should ask Ludovic.”

Harry frowns.

This Ministry official is big and broad with golden hair and too-white teeth. Tom leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of Harry’s ear.

“Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports,” Tom explains. “_Enormous_gambler.”

He leans back, and Harry frowns.

“How...how do you know that?” Harry asks.

Tom flashes him a fearsome grin and then, he peels himself away from Harry and approaches the trio of adults. Ludo Bagman looks up like he has a sensor, and his broad grin widens as he lays his eyes on Tom Riddle.

He reaches out and grabs Tom’s hand and in a booming voice, Ludo Bagman declares, “If it isn’t our soon-to-be Champion, Tom Riddle!”

“Don’t jinx me, please, Ludo,” Tom says with his charming smile. Tom looks over his shoulder and beckons Harry forward. Harry looks back at Remus, but Remus has already gone to herd Defence Squad. Harry clears his throat and almost flinches when he sees the way Ludo Bagman stares at him—appreciative in a way that Harry doesn’t care for. “This is Harry Potter—”

“The Boy Who Lived?” Bagman asks, surprised.

“Just Harry Potter, the Gryffindor,” Harry retorts.

Bagman seems surprised. Tom’s lips curl into a smirk.

“Also, my co-Captain.”

Harry’s eyes widen and he turns on Tom, nostrils flaring. Tom doesn’t even bother to look at him. Bagman hums, looking between the pair of them, assessing.

“I thought it would’ve been the Black girl. Bellatrix, was it? She’s a talented one,” Bagman says, and Harry doesn’t think he’s imagining that double entendre.

From the way Tom sharpens, he doesn’t think Tom misses it either.

“Yes, but Harry Potter is...singularly my equal,” Tom drawls, and the way he smirks at Bagman tells Harry that Bagman is nowhere _ near _their equal.

Bagman seems to recognize it as well. “Tom…” he says, suddenly simpering. “I wanted to thank you again. For that favor, you did me this summer.”

Harry hums.

“Don’t worry about it, Ludo. We’re even. Aren’t we?” Tom asks pleasantly.

Bagman nods once. “Yes...yes...if you’ll excuse me, I need to organize the schools and perhaps seek out Durmstrang.”

Tom takes a step forward. And though he’s much more slender than Bagman, he is also _much _taller. For a moment, his eyes burn bright red, and then he says, “Yes, you should go do that.”

Bagman winces and then turns, walking away in hurried steps. Harry turns to Tom, staring up at him.

“What was that?” he demands.

“What was what?” Tom retorts.

“Don’t play with me,” Harry warns. “What was _ that _?”

“He’s a gambler. I assisted him with some of his debts and burnt bridges. Harry...he was only thanking me,” Tom says, and on the surface, Harry knows that Tom is telling the truth. That was all that was said—an exchange of thanks and grace.

But, Harry _knows _Tom.

And he knows that Tom thinks he doesn’t.

So, Harry lets it go for now, and lets a small smile cross his face. “Co-Captain?” he asks. “Have you run that by your Bella?”

“I don’t need to run anything by her,” Tom says, voice hard. His gaze softens and he clears his throat as he looks down at Harry. And then, he looks up, twice as fast, already looking exasperated. “Headmaster.”

Harry jerks, not realizing how close he’d gotten to Tom, and he looks back at Headmaster Dumbledore. Dumbledore watches them with a knowing glint.

“Harry. Tom,” he greets. “This _ is _an exciting occasion.”

“It is,” Harry says as politely as he can, but he’s interrupted by Tom’s swift: “I suppose, old man.”

Harry balks, and feels a bit like Hermione does whenever Ron and he ignore authority’s power.

“You can’t _talk _to him like that,” Harry hisses.

Tom snorts. “Yeah, alright,” he drawls. He affects a false, charming smile. “Yes, we’re very excited, Professor. Aren’t you?”

If anything, Dumbledore looked even _more _amused. “Now, Tom, I do believe that we have an agreement. Don’t we?”

“No lies, then. That was for his benefit,” Tom says, his smile falling again and he nods at Harry. He turns to face forward, his brow creased in a frown. Tom crosses his arms over his chest.

Harry rolls his eyes and looks over at Dumbledore. “Professor...Remus seems a bit stressed. Is there anything we can do?” he asks.

Dumbledore hums, looking so very sage and serious.

“I believe that your guardian’s stress is less due to the duelling competition, but the circumstances surrounding it. There are rumors that the duelling competition is at the center of a gambling ring. The Aurors are here on the look out for...unsavory spectators,” Dumbledore says.

Harry’s eyes widen at the very idea. He remembers something that Sirius said weeks ago, a vague mention of a gambling ring and Marlene McKinnon. He spots her by the doorway—his godfather’s ex-girlfriend—and though she seems to be doing her utmost best to avoid Remus, she’s still looking around, alert.

“Doesn’t that worry you, Professor?” Harry asks.

“No, my dear boy. It shouldn’t worry you either,” Dumbledore says firmly. “You should be focused on having _ fun_, right, Tom?”

“On winning you mean,” Tom mutters under his breath. He perks up all of a sudden, and runs his hands over his black suit—he’s very consciously out of uniform now but he wears his Slytherin tie proudly—and looks over at Harry. “They’re here.”

“How can you tell?” Harry demands, and then, he suddenly knows why.

Dark magic is pervasive and he feels it on his skin.

Tom seems to feel it too, though he grins. “Bella,” he summons.

The Death Eaters all perk up too and they move as one, each falling into step, arranging themselves behind Tom, a shroud of black and they all stand at attention. Like Tom is their general. Or _their__ Lord_.

The Defence Squad scurries into action as Remus waves them forward, and honestly, Harry watches Ron trip over Luna and Ginny shove Lavender, and he grins. While they’re all in their duelling robes—well-made robes of black and crimson, a flashy reference to their House, and of, course, blue for Luna—they aren’t like the Death Eaters. They’re a ragtag group of students that are a bit of a mess, and it just means that they’re _ Harry’s _.

“Don’t _ embarrass _us,” Bellatrix hisses from the corner of her mouth.

“Shut your mouth, Black,” Ginny retorts, and then, she winks at Harry.

“You alright, Habibi?” Hermione whispers as she ends up placed _ right _next to Harry. She reaches down, her fingers finding his and Harry squeezes.

He doesn’t look away from the doors as he nods.

And then, Hogwarts Castle _ opens_.

Ilvermorny’s Duelling Team enters first.

Their duelling robes are coloured blue and cranberry, a gold Gordian knot at their throats. They’re led by an African-American woman with whiskey brown eyes and a wide, generous mouth. She glares across the rest of the Hogwarts student body, and at her side is a girl that looks like she could be her younger sister or her daughter.

“Presenting Ilvermorny’s Duelling Team led by their Captain, Melior Boot!” Bagman announced, his voice booming.

Hermione gasps in Harry’s ear. “She’s...she must be a descendant of the Boots. Two of Ilvermorny’s Founders,” Hermione hisses.

Harry’s eyes widen as the cameras go off and the Ilvermorny team makes their rounds. They’re a smaller team—around eight compared to Hogwarts’ twelve. But, that just means that they’re a solid team on their own. The Ilvermorny team goes to the far corner.

Beauxbatons is next and Bagman announces them as they flit in, dressed in powder blue duelling robes, led by what Harry _ has _to believe is the most beautiful girl to have ever existed. His gaze flits over Tom’s face, but he seems unaffected, but both of the Lestrange boys can’t stop staring. Ron’s jaw has actually dropped. Even Hermione seems to be distracted.

“Fleur Delacour,” Tom mutters. “The Beauxbatons team is weak, but she...she is a force.”

“Interesting way to put it,” Harry teases.

Tom hums. “She’s a quarter-Veela, and your Occlumency has to be _ strong _to resist a Veela lure.”

Tom falls silent as Delacour parades around, a much smaller girl dogging her footsteps along with the enormous woman that escorted them.

It’s Koldovstoretz next, then, Castelobruxo, and Tom is silent through the pair of them. He murmurs a soft warning when Mahoutokuro parades around in their golden uniforms. Harry learns that they wear gold because it means that they’re at the very top of their fields.

“Last year’s third place team! Uagadou led by their Captain Olufemi Ayao!”

Harry’s heard about Uagadou’s Duelling Team.

He knows that they are _ excellent, _and many of their duellists go on to be on the world duelling stage after graduation.

“That’s Olufemi Ayao and he’s...we don’t want to go up against them. They don’t use _ wands, _ Harry. They don’t _ need _it,” Hermione whispers, and while she sounds rather terrified by the prospect, she sounds almost thrilled, and jealous. “If...if I went to Uagadou, I wouldn’t have used a wand.”

Olufemi Ayao is handsome and tall with broad shoulders and a rather beautiful face. He looks right at Tom and nods. Tom nods back.

“You know one another?” Hermione hisses across Harry’s body.

“Olufemi and I understand one another. We know that the enemy of our enemy is our friend,” Tom mutters, far more forthcoming than Harry would’ve expected from him.

Before Hermione can further interrogate him—and isn’t that a wonder that she feels comfortable enough to do so—Bagman announces. “Last year’s second place team and this year’s host, Hogwarts, led by their co-Captains, Tom Marvolo Riddle and Harry Potter!”

Lavender’s question of “Co-Captain?” is lost in the sea of cheers from the rest of Hogwarts’ student body.

Harry grins, standing taller. He looks up at Tom, and he’s smirking. Harry looks back and sees that each school’s captain is _glaring_, like they’re the ones to beat. It just makes Harry grin harder.

“And now…” Bagman says, drawing it out, bellowing until his face is red, “INTRODUCING LAST YEAR’S CHAMPIONS, THE PROUD SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF DURMSTRANG!”

Tom’s smile drops and straightens.

The Death Eaters shift behind him, hands clasping behind their backs.

Harry’s smile falters as there’s the sound of feet pounding on the floor, and he watches as eleven boys and girls in brown suits march in, like soldiers. The boys’ heads are all shaved, the girl’s hair tied back into tight braids that make their eyebrows arch. They march in and split down the middle, making way for their captain and his Headmaster.

“Blimey, it’s him. Viktor Krum,” Ron breathes.

Viktor Krum is thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. To Harry, he looks like an overgrown bird of prey. It’s hard to believe he’s only eighteen. [1]

No one looks away from him to glance at Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang.

Krum is draped in furs and he moves with an intensity that Harry recognizes in a fellow Seeker. He knows this boy is one; he’s shortlisted to play on Bulgaria’s National Team.

Krum doesn’t stop walking even as his teammates do.

He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of Tom.

Tom’s only a few centimeters taller.

“Tom _ Reedle_,” Krum says, his Bulgarian accent mangling Tom’s last name. Harry thinks he might be doing it on purpose.

“Viktor Krum,” Tom says coldly.

Krum’s lips tilt into a smile and he holds out his hand. His dark gaze flits down over Harry’s face, cataloging every part of him. Harry stares back, stone-faced. Krum looks back at Tom and Tom takes his hand shaking just once.

“I look forward to, ah, _ duelling _you,” Krum says.

“I look forward to ending you,” Tom says back just as pleasantly.

Harry swallows hard.

The International Intra-school Duelling Competition has begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire
> 
> \---
> 
> A/N: Hello. I thought I would say this now we're going into the last half/third of the story.
> 
> This is going to be a wild ride from here on out. Things won't stop for a while. It will get extremely dark. So, heed the tags. Take care of yourself. I'll put TWs at the end of each chapter where I believe they're necessary.
> 
> Here we go.


	51. MONDAY, 8:23AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which dinner plans are made.

“You see them, down there? You think they’re thinking about us?” Ron asks, eyes narrowed as he exams the fifth table that’s been added to the Great Hall.

It’s parallel to the staff’s table, large and wide enough to accommodate all of the duelling teams, and they all sit very closed-rank. None of them appear to be listening or spying on any of the Hogwarts teams, but Harry doesn’t know if they know spells that would assist them in collecting information.

“I think they’re more concerned about breakfast,” Hermione says firmly. “Much like yourself.”

“It’s _ so _ not fair that they get to spend the _ whole _week just training while we still have class,” Ginny complains.

Luna grins. “At least we’ll be excused for Astronomy for the duration of the tournament!” she says cheerfully and Ginny grins as she’s freshly reminded of at least _ one _exception that she’s been afforded.

Hermione scoffs. “I’m sure that their teachers will hold them accountable and they’ll learn just like us.”

“I don’t know about Durmstrang. That Igor Karkaroff guy looks serious,” Ron says, looking at the group of Durmstrang students at the very center of the table. He squints at their backs and hums. “They remind me a bit of the Death Eaters, don’t they?”

“Well, the Death Eaters are a known factor. I don’t know anything about Krum besides the fact that he’s licensed. Like Riddle,” Hermione insists. She squints at all of the other groups and hums to herself. “We should all meet soon. I’ll start making a list of presumed strengths and weaknesses.”

“Already ahead of you, Granger.”

Harry looks up and almost tilts his head on instinct for a kiss. Tom looks down at him, smug, as he recognizes Harry’s reaction, and Harry just glares.

“To-om,” Harry sighs.

“Ha_ -rry_,” Tom mocks before he turns to the rest of the Defence Squad. He completely disregards the strange looks they give him. “Hope your skills haven’t gotten soft over the holidays. Here’s the breakdown and the brackets for Thursday’s matches. I just received the match-ups this morning.”

He tosses down a stack of parchment and Hermione snatches hers up first, eyes scanning for her name. Lavender gasps when she sees her name and she looks up, eyes bright.

“Doubles with Rabastan? You think that’s smart? Rabastan and Rodolphus work _ much _better together,” Lavender says. She sounds excited if a little wary about the match-up, but Tom shakes his head as Lavender deflates, waiting for him to change it up on her.

“Rabastan is a more physical duellist. You’re quite good with mind charms. You’ll balance one another out instead of Rabastan relying on his older brother,” Tom explains. He looks at the others and assures them, “While haven’t matched you in any of the duels on Thursday, you will definitely duel at least once in the next round.”

“You don’t hear me complaining,” Ron mumbles even as Ginny pouts.

Hermione’s eyes are still scanning the matchups and she nods, like she’s agreeing with each of Tom’s choices, like she can see why. Her lips curl into a smug smile as she looks up at Tom, eyes bright.

“I’m the primary for the third match?” she asks.

Tom looks down at her and nods once. “You’re ruthlessly efficient. In the chance that we don’t win the first two, you’ll finish it up for us quite nicely, won’t you, Granger?”

Hermione grins. “Of _ course_.”

Tom nods as everyone accepts their fate and he turns to look at Harry, disregarding the rest of Harry’s friends just as easily. Harry looks up at him, patiently.

“What are you doing later?” Tom asks.

“Later, when?” Harry retorts.

Tom rolls his eyes. “After classes, Harry,” Tom sighs, and Harry laughs before he remembers that he’s surrounded by all his friends.

He glances at them. Ron looks confused, Luna is intrigued, Ginny seems knowing, and Lavender...Lavender is unsure. Only Hermione watches them with any real sense of understanding, and there’s something thoughtful to her gaze.

“I’m...I’m getting dinner with Lavender,” Harry declares.

He stares at Tom, and Tom nods, immediately understanding.

“We’re getting dinner?” Lavender asks.

“Are we all invited?” Ron demands.

Harry snorts. “No,” he denies. He turns to Lavender and smiles at her. “Just you and I, Lavender. Dinner in the kitchens, tonight.”


	52. MONDAY, 7:22PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Lavender and Harry have a long anticipated conversation.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Oh, I hope some day I'll make it out of here  
Even if it takes all night or a hundred years  
Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near  
Wanna feel alive, outside I can't fight my fear
> 
> Isn't it lovely, all alone  
Heart made of glass, my mind of stone  
Tear me to pieces, skin to bone  
Hello, welcome home"
> 
> -lovely, Billie Eilish & Khalid

“This bread is really good,” Lavender says as she munches on the warm brown bread. She smiles at the house elf that bounces, waiting for her words. “Thank you, Dobby!”

“Of course, Miss Lavender! Dobby thanks you for coming tonight!” Dobby says cheerfully. He spins on his heel and bounces away, grinning. Lavender relaxes, dipping her brown bread into her soup and eating it.

She has a healthy glow to her that wasn’t present before the holidays. She’s clearly eaten well and she’s so _ happy_.

“Your holidays were good, then, Harry?” Lavender asks.

“Yeah. It was really great. Spent a lot of time with Sirius and Remus. Even played the piano for a bit. Haven’t felt like playing in a long time,” Harry admits. He feels so open, admitting that to her, almost exposed.

“That’s good, Harry. Really,” Lavender says. She leans forward, her eyes lit up. “Harry, I have to tell you, I had the _ best _ time. My mother surprised me with a shopping trip in _ Paris _ for Christmas. It was amazing. I had the best time. I tried escargot and I ate so many _ pastries_.”

Harry laughs, biting his lip as Lavender tells him about her favorite pieces—dragonhide thigh-high boots and slinky purple slip dresses. She talks about the croquembouche she and her mother devoured. She talks about visiting Prima Madonna, a French atelier in the French version of Diagon Alley. She talks and talks, and Harry’s good mood slips more and more because he knows.

He has to tell her.

He has to tell her _ now_.

“Anyway, Sunday was intense, wasn’t it?” Lavender asks cheerfully, suddenly changing the conversation. She sips her soup from her spoon. “A lot of handsome guys. I saw Krum looking at you. Can I set you up?”

Harry swallows.

_ (Tell her now—) _

“Lav, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Lavender stops, and frowns at him, happily confused. “What’s up?”

“Um...a few weeks ago at the fundraiser…” Harry trails off, and shakes his head because no, he can’t start from there. It’ll sound crazy, and he needs Lavender to understand. “No, before that. Um...remember after you and Tom and he...said those horrible things to you?”

“Oh, Harry, aren’t you co-captains now? He _ apologized _—” Lavender sighs.

“I know!” Harry insists, stopping Lavender short. “I...I know. Okay, so, before he apologized and after I said something, he, um, he asked me on a date.”

Lavender pauses. She stares at him for a long time.

So, Harry continues, “I-I said no. Of course, I said no. And then, he...after that, after he apologized, and we talked more, he asked me on another one, and I told him it was...it was going to be us talking about him leaving you alone, so I went.”

Lavender blinks.

“You went on a date with Tom?” Lavender asks, her voice tiny. “Just one, right?”

Harry turns ashen.

“I...he fancies me. He told me. And at first, it was awful, because I couldn’t stand him,” Harry whispers softly, his voice cracking. “But, he...he gets me in a way _ no one _has understood me before, and I...we got...we got together. We’re together. I spent...I spent the last week with him, and…”

“Did you kiss?” Lavender whispers. She swallows hard. “Did...did you have sex?”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He repeats, “Lavender, Tom and I are together. We’re together.”

Harry watches it happen.

He watches as her face slowly crumples and her heart breaks as his words sink in. He opens his mouth to say something _ (I’m sorryLavenderpleaseijustlove—) _ and then, he closes his mouth again, because there’s nothing he can say. He doesn’t know what to say.

“You can’t be,” she hiccups.

“I wanted to tell you, Laven—”

“But, you _ didn’t_,” she interrupts, staring at something past him. She can’t look him in the eye, even as he tries his fucking best to make eye contact with her. She refuses to look at him. “You let me...you let me look like a fucking _ idiot_, Harry.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He shakes his head again and again because he can’t stop and he’s choking on air, strangling on it.

“No, no, that’s not what I wanted to do, Lavender. I’m just...I don’t—” Harry says, speaking in halts and starts because he doesn’t know what to say, he’s never been the best with words, and Lavender is staring at him like he’s just stabbed her.

“You said...you said that he’s an arse.”

Harry swallows. “He...he is.”

“You said he wasn’t _ good enough _ for me,” Lavender hisses. Her voice is shaking. “If...if he’s not good enough for me...how is he good enough for you? What’s so different about _ us_?”

He hears the question there, the one she doesn’t ask: _ What’s so Goddamn special about you? _

_ ( _ Nothing, _ he wants to say. _ I’m just broken, _ he doesn’t say. _ He’s broken too, _ he won’t say _.)

“I...I know this was terrible of me to do. I-I’m so sorry—” Harry whispers.

“Sorry enough to break up with him?” Lavender snarls.

Harry’s face falls and he feels his eyes burn. “I-I…”

Lavender collapses in on herself and she buried her face in her hands and lets out a shriek. It’s loud enough to startle a few of the house elves by the ovens. Then, she looks up, her eyes bright red and she stares grimly at Harry.

“Don’t do that. Don’t break up with him,” she whispers.

“Lav, what can I do? What can I _ do_—”

Lavender stands up so fast the bench screeches against the ground and she shakes her head as she looks down at Harry. Harry stands, reaches for her, but she flinches away.

“Don’t...don’t talk to me,” she hisses.

“Lavender, _ no _—”

“No!” Lavender barks. “You know what you can do? You know what I _ need_? I need you to leave me alone and let me...let me _ process _ this. Let me be angry because Harry...I am _ so _angry with you.”

Lavender turns on her heel and storms out. Harry’s hand is still outstretched. His bottom lip quivers and he tastes salt on his tongue. He wipes at his suddenly blurry vision and shoves away from the table, nearly stumbling into the next one over.

“Harry...Harry Potter? Harry Potter, do you need something?” Dobby says, his voice so soft and gentle.

Harry can barely make out of the shape of him through his tears.

He hiccups loudly, shaking his head. “No, I-I...I…” he stammers and then he turns away and flees, running from the kitchens almost immediately.

He staggers into the corridor, looks up and down, and can’t find a hint that Lavender was even there in the first place. Harry lets out a single wretched sound that he tries to swallow as he stumbles along the corridor, swiping at his tears.

He’s not even sure of where he’s going, where he’s walking as he keeps his head ducked and he prays to any of the gods that no one will come across him. Not anyone as he goes up the back staircase and staggers along the next corridor.

He knocks on the door when he finally reaches it.

The door swings open.

Clearwater opens her mouth to say something smart, and then, she actually looks at him. She takes an alarmed step back and looks over her shoulder.

“Riddle,” she calls, her voice gentle, “your boyfriend is crying.”

Tom appears behind her almost immediately. Clearwater steps to the side. Tom takes one look at him and then drags him inside. Harry presses his forehead to Tom’s shoulder and he lets out a terrible sound, uncaring that he’s soaking Tom’s cardigan with tears.

“You told Lavender,” Tom murmurs.

Harry lets out a gasping sound and he pushes himself to stand up straight. He looks up at Tom.

“I...I…” he tries and then he shakes his head. He grabs Tom by the shoulders and takes a deep shuddering breath, centering himself.

_ (you do not get to cry, _ he tells himself. _ stop fucking crying. _)

So, he stops. He rearranges himself, compartmentalizes the emotions, and _ breathes_.

He looks up at Tom and something must be off because Tom stares at him with that _ poor creature _expression that Harry fucking hates. Harry grabs Tom’s hand and drags him towards his bedroom. He lets Tom’s hand go when he enters and he hisses at Nagini, a strange choked sound that he mimics from Tom. It must be close enough because Tom makes a sound and Nagini slips off the bed.

Harry crawls onto the bed, fully dressed and all and curls up.

He feels Tom move behind him, crawling forward.

“Harry—”

Harry reaches back, grabs Tom’s arm and wraps it around him. Harry feels the heat of Tom's chest against his back and he sinks into it.

He closes his eyes to the world.


	53. TUESDAY, 7:12 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Ron loses his shit.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "What the fuck are we talking for?  
I got no time to talk no more  
What the fuck are we squabbling for?  
We both know that you don't wanna start no war, ayy  
'Cause you know mother never raised no bitch  
All I gotta do is throw a five-finger sandwich  
And you will fall so hard  
What the fuck are we talking for?  
I got no time to talk no more  
You know, you know"
> 
> -WTF Are We Talking For, Labrinth

Harry is trying to sneak back into Gryffindor Tower to shower before class when Ron descends.

“What the fuck is this I hear about you _ fucking _Riddle behind Lav’s back?”

Harry stops in the Common Room, his breath catching in his throat. He looks around, but the only people around are two Gryffindor fifth years frantically working to finish an essay before class starts. They look at him, then look back at their work, and then do a double-take when they realize what Ron’s accused Harry of.

“I...what?” Harry stammers.

Hermione thunders down the stairs, flying in between Harry and Ron as Ron takes a threatening step forward.

“Stop it!” she warns Ron. “You’re really going to do this in public?”

“Yeah, we’re going to do this in public!” Ron snarls and he reaches around Hermione to shove at Harry’s shoulder. “What the fuck is _ up_, mate?”

Harry startles and chooses to be angry rather than devastatingly sad about the fact that Lavender told Ron before _ he _could.

“You want to have a go at me?” Harry barks.

“Yeah, I want to have a go at you!” Ron snarls back. “You _ knew _that she fancied him. And you just, what? Couldn’t help dropping your trousers for him, like every other piss-poor soul in this Goddamn school?”

“Hey, shut the fuck up!” Harry hisses. He shoves back at Ron because what the _ fuck _ is this guy’s problem? “What? You fucking jealous? Head’s up, mate, she doesn’t fucking _ want _you.”

Hermione looks between the two of them, her nostrils flaring and she shoves them both back. She looks at them both, warningly. She turns to address Ron first.

“How dare you? Don’t speak to him like that! That’s your best friend,” she snarls. She turns to Harry, even though Harry already regrets his quick words. She gears up and spits, “And _ you_. Why would you _ say _—”

“You don’t seem too upset about it all, Hermione,” Ron says snippily, glaring at her. Hermione falters in her chastisement and she turns back to Ron, her eyes wider than they normally are. Ron stares at her for a long moment and his anger falters, just the tiniest bit. He turns so pale that his freckles are stark against his face. “Oh. You knew. Didn’t you?”

Hermione’s expression crumples. “I..._ Ron_,” she begins.

“No. Don’t...don’t say anything,” Ron whispers, and he sounds lost for a moment. He looks between the pair of them. “You two...have always had your relationship. And it was different from Harry’s and mine. And yours and mine, Hermione. But, I thought we agreed no more lying.”

He sounds heartbroken.

Harry flinches. “I didn’t...I didn’t _ lie_—”

“You didn’t tell me the truth,” Ron says, his voice cracking high. “You got with Riddle behind Lavender’s back. You didn’t tell Ginny. You didn’t tell Luna. You didn’t tell _ me_. I bet you didn’t tell Hermione. She...she found out, didn’t she? She’s always been the smartest of us. She guessed, didn’t she?”

Harry’s expression tells the whole story.

Ron takes a step back and he shakes his head. He runs his big hand over his face and grimaces as he looks between Harry and Hermione.

“Ron, it wasn’t...he was supposed to break up with—” Hermione hisses.

“But, he didn’t, Hermione,” Ron snarls through clenched teeth. “No, instead, he has dinner with Lavender, all of a sudden, and she comes back here, _ sobbing_, because her friend is fucking the guy who took her virginity and then viciously dumped her!”

Harry flinches hard and nervously shoves his glasses up his nose. “It’s not...it’s not like that—”

“It fucking _ is _ because that’s what it _ looks _ like, Harry. It looks like you decided to get with the guy that humiliated your friend, like you _ waited _for that to happen,” Ron insists. “You talked all of this shit about how he didn’t deserve her and then you got with him. Guess what, Harry? You don’t fucking deserve her either.”

Hermione chooses now to blow up.

“And what?” she barks. “_You _ do? Because you’re playing her knight in shining armor? Give me a _ break_, Ronald. She’s not your Cinderella. You’re not saving her from the wicked stepmother.”

“What the fuck is Cinderella? A disease?” Ron spits violently.

Hermione rolls her eyes, nose wrinkling. “You’re so concerned about _ Lavender_, you haven’t given a single thought to one of your oldest friends!” Hermione says insistently.

“You sound _ jealous_,” Ron spits. “Jealous that I want to be with her, then, Hermione?”

Hermione pauses, and then, she laughs right in Ron’s face.

Ron turns pale. He turns on his heel and stalks out of the tower, not speaking another word.

Hermione’s laugh tapers off and she looks deflated after using all of her energy to defend Harry, and she turns to him. And despite it being early in the morning, she looks _ exhausted_.

“I hope...I hope you know what you’re doing, Harry,” she whispers.

Harry swallows hard and softly, he confesses, “I don’t know anything at all.”


	54. THURSDAY, 4:24PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the duelling begins.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> “All I do is win win win no matter what  
Got money on my mind I can never get enough  
And every time I step up in the buildin'  
Everybody hands go up”
> 
> -All I Do Is Win, DJ Khaled

Harry tugs on his robes nervously as he lingers in the Entrance Hall, breathing through his nerves.

He’s not duelling today, but he’s still so nervous. It’s Ilvermorny against Hogwarts for the very first match. Tom said that it makes sense that the hosting school would open the competition, and he doesn’t seem worried in the least about Ilvermorny, but Harry is nervous.

And the day’s interactions with Defence Squad hadn’t helped.

Ron and Lavender still aren’t speaking to Harry.

Harry and Hermione had partnered together in Potions. Ron had sat silently next to him in Charms.

They all still sat together, but not a word had been spoken.

“Habibi.”

Harry feels fingers lace through his and he looks to his right.

Hermione stares straight ahead. Her massive amount of curls have been pulled back from her face into two long cornrows down her back. Her duelling robes look magnificent on her and out from beneath are two shiny new boots peeking out, the soles made of thick rubber to stop traction. She looks ready; she knows her role here. She’s the closer, and she’s taking it seriously.

“Do you want to get dinner after your victory?” Harry asks with a small smile.

“Don’t jinx me,” Hermione teases. Her gaze softens. “But, yes, I’d like that. Before you skip off to sleep in your boyfriend’s bed.”

Harry stiffens and moves to tug away from her. “Mione—”

“No. Don’t walk on eggshells around me, Potter. Lavender and Ron need to grow up,” Hermione says firmly.

“I really hurt her,” Harry whispers.

Hermione sighs. “Yeah. You did. But, Ron...Ron’s just angry because she’s angry.”

“And what about Luna and Ginny? I’m sure they’ve taken their sides,” Harry says quietly.

“Can you blame them?” Hermione demands. She softens again, her lips moving like she’s telling herself something. She looks up at him. “They haven’t said a word to you because they’re neutral. They’re Switzerland.”

“What does Switzerland have to do with anything?” Harry demands.

Hermione snorts. “I always forget that you may be half-blood, but you’re raised by two wizards,” Hermione says to herself. “Look, I’m sure that if you _ tried _to talk to Luna and Ginny, you’d see that they aren’t angry with you. Just confused. They want an explanation. And Lavender...give her time. She’s allowed to be angry.”

“And Ron?” Harry says, voice small.

Hermione’s gaze hardens. “Don’t worry about Ron. He’ll get his head out of arse sooner or later. You know that you two never fight for long,” Hermione reassures him. She tugs him forward. “Now come on, there’s a duelling competition to be had co-Captain.”

Harry lets her guide him into the Great Hall where they’re met with a wall of cheers. Harry’s eyes widen as he looks around the Hall. All of the tables have been Vanished, replaced by two enormously tall stands that rise close to the ceilings. Each is packed with students, the first rows stuffed with the non-duelling teams. Along the very center is a long duelling platform. Perpendicular, at a long table, sit the faculty advisors for the teams, the Headmaster, along with Ludo Bagman as the impartial referee.

Harry catches Remus’ eye and Remus winks at him, his lips pulling into a tiny smile. Harry smiles back before he turns his attention to the rest of the Duelling Club—team.

“There you are, Granger. Are you ready?” Rosier asks. Out of all of Defence Squad, Rosier has always gravitated most clearly to Hermione.

Harry understands why. They’re both studious and serious, and while Bellatrix is probably Tom’s best friend, in reality, Harry can see Tom going to Rosier about more serious matters.

“I am. Hopefully, it won’t come down to us. Me,” Hermione mutters under her breath. She shakes out her nerves, her left eye almost twitching with her nerves.

Harry squeezes down on her hand.

Someone says, “You’ll be fine, Mione. You’re the best.”

Harry stiffens at the sweet words. He looks up and catches Lavender’s gaze directly. She’s tucked between Ron and Luna, her arms folded over her chest. She sounds devastatingly chipper but, there’s something wounded at the corners of her eyes. Her smile falters just the tiniest bit before Lavender pastes it back on again.

She doesn’t say anything to Harry.

“Thanks, Lavender,” Hermione says, her voice soft. She clears her throat. “Do you feel ready?”

“I...I think so,” Lavender mumbles. “It’s doubles. I...I wouldn’t feel _ terrible _if I lost. If we lost.”

“You’ll do fine,” Harry blurts out. “Great, even.”

Lavender blinks slowly. “Thanks,” she drawls.

And then, she turns away.

“Oooff. Tough crowd,” Ginny murmurs in obvious sympathy. She squeezes Harry’s shoulder before she drifts to her brother’s crowd and very pointedly elbows him in the ribs, shooting a glare up at him.

Harry sags. “_Fuck_,” he whispers.

“Harry, I’m sorry,” Hermione whispers back.

“Harry.”

Harry turns and looks up at his boyfriend, eyes tired from the day. Tom looks down at him. He’s actually wearing duelling robes for once, though his are starkly different from his team’s. Harry reaches up, pressing a hand to his chest, fingers grazing over the scaled material. The scales are _ huge_.

“Is this dragonhide? You look good,” Harry murmurs.

Before Tom can answer, Hermione blurts out: “It’s not dragonhide. It’s Basilisk scales. That must have cost a _ fortune_.”

“To make. Not to possess. I’m the Heir of Slytherin. You think I can’t find Basilisk scales?” Tom asks, pleasantly. It’s a rhetorical question so he turns to Harry, nudging his chin up. “It’s nearly time. Give us a kiss, darling. For luck.”

Harry frowns and shoves him away, lightly. “Fuck off,” he mutters.

Tom’s lips curl in amusement. “Why?”

“She’s right there, you arse. I’m not going to..._ throw it in her face_,” Harry snarls, voice lowering.

Tom rolls his eyes and sighs, taking a step back. “Fine. I’ll win this for you, Harry,” he drawls before he takes another step back and turns to Bellatrix.

Bellatrix glares at Harry, pointing two fingers at her eyes before pointing directly at Harry. She turns away and swaggers off with Tom, walking up the short stairs onto the duelling platform.

“Has Black put a hit on her life?” Hermione asks.

“No. She’s just jealous and psychotic,” Harry mutters. He keeps his eye on Bellatrix as she shrugs off her over-robes, leaving her in a short-sleeved turtleneck and a corset over it. He stops himself from rolling his eyes at her dramatics, and then, he notices.

“Is that a tattoo?” Hermione asks.

Harry doesn’t answer.

But, it is. It _ is _a tattoo on the inside of her left forearm.

A skull with a snake coming out of its mouth.

Like the tattoo on _ Tom’s _arm.

“Yeah, I’ve seen—”

“_WELCOME TO THE ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL INTRA-SCHOOL DUELLING COMPETITION!_” Bagman booms, standing to his feet. The din in the Great Hall quiets to a dull roar, and so, Bagman continues. “_IN ACCORDANCE WITH TRADITION, THE HOSTING SCHOOL, HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY WILL OPEN THE COMPETITION. IN A RANDOMLY SELECTED MATCH-UP THEY WILL FACE THE ILVERMORNY SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY. DUELLISTS ASCEND!_”

Tom steps forward, cracking his neck as he steps forward. Bellatrix steps forward, grabbing his shoulders, hissing in his ear as she stares at Melior Boot as she ascends on her end of the platform.

“_IN THE FIRST MATCH, WE HAVE A MEETING OF CAPTAINS. TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE OF HOGWARTS DOTH CHALLENGE MELIOR BOOT OF ILVERMORNY. THEY BOW!_”

Tom dips his head in a bow as Melior curtseys, wand crossed over her chest.

“_LET THE DUEL COMMENCE._”

And then, Tom moves, whipping out his pale wand firing a devastating purple curse. Melior looks surprised and just barely dodges it, and then, she’s under a barrage of spells, each one harsher and faster than the one before.

“I’ve never really noticed...he’s really good, isn’t he?” Hermione whispers.

“Yes. He’s _ very _good,” Harry responds as they watch the mastery taking place on the platform.

Tom moves fluidly, easily switching between curses and jinxes and Shield Charms each time Melior gathers her wits enough to send a spell back at him. Spells fly everywhere but it never reaches the spectators—the Aurors are doing their jobs in keeping a steady stream of Shield Charms up.

He watches Tom use that same _ Protego Diabolica_, and he hears the soft gasps as everyone seems to realize the kind of magic Tom prefers to wield in duels.

Even now, Harry’s still uncomfortable and feels something prickling his spine, but he knows that this is for a duel, in a controlled setting. There are Aurors here. Tom would never _ really _hurt someone with the Dark Arts. Not out of spite. This is academic. Competitive. It’s fine.

_ (This is what he tells himself.) _

The blue flames surround him and Tom begins to use them as whips, flinging them out towards Melior, attempting to set her on fire, and she looks panicky now, her nostrils flaring, a drop of blood rolling down from her temple where one of Tom’s tamer Cutting Curses slashed at her hairline.

“He’s brutal,” Hermione sighs.

“Welcome to the world of _ Reedle._”

Both Harry and Hermione turns, eyes widening as they see Viktor Krum, in the flesh, up close and personal.

Harry decides almost immediately he doesn’t like him.

Hermione blinks up at him, squinting. “Oh. You’re Viktor Krum, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Yes,” Krum says with a clumsy smile. For some reason, Harry wants to call it an act, but also, he doesn’t know Krum, and he might be a bit biased because of _ Tom _. “And I do not know you. Have not had the pleasure of knowing you.”

Hermione’s lips tilt into a tiny smile. “I’m Hermione Granger. I’m on the Hogwarts Duelling Team.”

“Oh. I _ know _.” Krum stops and then, starts again. “I saw you. At the welcoming. And you. You are Harry Potter, no?”

“Yes,” Harry says shortly, keeping his gaze trained on Tom.

Tom has ended _ Protego Diabolica _in favor of getting closer. They’re only a few meters apart now. Harry knows Tom isn’t a fan of getting up and personal—he’s a big picture kind of guy, likes to see what’s coming at him from miles away. He’s a strategist and a planner. Harry’s more of the impulse duellist.

“_Reedle _is quite powerful,” Krum says like it’s an absent observation. “He is a worthy opponent. But, does he ever shared his glory, Hermy-own?”

Harry snickers behind his hand, looking down, even as Hermione glares at him.

Hermione smirks. “He does with this one.”

Krum raises his eyebrow. “Ah, yes, you are his co-Captain, no?”

“Also his boyfriend,” Hermione says. She’s just volunteering information and Harry glares at Hermione. She shrugs at him, like she doesn’t see why it’s such a big deal.

“Ah, tragic,” Krum sighs.

“Why?” Harry says, his lips tilting into a tiny smile.

Krum shakes his head. “Two beautiful creatures, one taken, and the other simply disinterested.”

“You're laying it on rather thick,” Harry retorts firmly.

And just as he finishes, Tom twirls his wand and sends Melior Boot straight off the duelling platform.

She hits the floor with a thud, and Harry jumps up because he knows what that means. A duel only continues so long as both opponents are on the platform. To end it, one is sent off the platform for more than ten seconds or incapacitated or submits. Melior doesn’t get up in ten seconds. She's still sprawled on the ground, groaning.

“WE HAVE A WINNER: TOM RIDDLE!” Bagman booms.

Harry jumps up, eyes bright, and he loses the sound of his own voice in the rise of cheers that gives way as Tom pushes his hair back. He’s sweaty, his hair having fallen out of its gelled state into his eyes. He shrugs off his over-robes, leaving him only in tight trousers and a white shirt, and he smirks as he jumps off the duelling platform in front of Harry.

“That was for you, darling,” Tom says, and then his gaze flashes over Hermione, then Krum, before he tugs Harry in and kisses him, long and hard.

Harry laughs into Tom’s mouth, wrapping an arm around his neck and Tom kisses him in front of all these people, and then, he pulls back, grinning in Tom’s face.

“Show-off,” he says, eyes crinkling.

“Always,” Tom drawls before he pulls away and nods at Lavender and Rabastan. Lavender is staring at the ground. “Alright, Rabastan. Brown. Your turns. Tear them limb from limb. No mercy.”


	55. THURSDAY, 8:22PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry overhears some key information.

Lavender and Rabastan don’t tear the Ilvermorny doubles limb from limb, but they do end it in a remarkable draw. At least, Rabastan is down a foot for a little while Lavender had Confunded one of the Ilvermorny boys so hard that he’d thought he was a duck. In the end, everyone still refused to submit, and so a draw had been called so that Rabastan wouldn't bleed out.

Hermione had finished them though.

She _ was _ruthless. And Harry couldn’t be prouder.

He can’t stop grinning after dinner with Hermione. They’d spent all of it laughing and joking, breaking down the duels in Remus’ quarters, relaying it all to Sirius who’d joined them for dinner after finally picking up his motorbike in America.

Then, Hermione and Remus got caught up in discussing her werewolf relief fund, and Harry was feeling decidedly like visiting his boyfriend.

He’s getting closer and closer when he starts to hear unfamiliar voices.

“I have _ just _given you money, Riddle,” the voice hisses. It’s a familiar accent now. A Russian accent for sure. Harry leans forward, looking around the corner, eyes narrowed as he searches for the speaker.

He’s not surprised when he sees the back of Igor Karkaroff’s head. He is surprised that Karkaroff had dared to stalk Tom to his _ rooms_. He’s surprised that Clearwater hasn’t appeared yet to tell anyone off yet.

“It’s not all of it. You’re still in debt to me,” Tom says coldly. He seems rather pleased in his smugness. “Or would rather be in debt to the goblins still? I do hear that they’re much less _ forgiving _than me.”

Karkaroff stands there, stiff-backed and sneering for a moment, and then, Harry watches him crumble. His back curls and his shoulders sag and he reaches a shaking hand for Tom. Tom rocks back, sneering at the trembling fingers and Karkaroff wrenches his hand back.

“P-please..._ Tom_, mercy. I don’t—”

“I see you’ve put your name in my books. Do you hope to find your debt repaid with your winnings?” Tom asks. Karkaroff mumbles and Tom just laughs, but this laugh is nothing like Harry has ever heard from him—it’s cold and high and sends a chill down Harry’s spine. “Oh, you _ do_. You haven’t bet me on though, have you? What did Evan say? You bet on your _ own _team. You’re foolish if you think Durmstrang will win again. You’ve seen the odds we’ve offered and the Prophet’s odds are the same. You’ll lose and you won’t have a Knut to your name.”

“Please...please...Tom—”

“You stole money from your own school. I have little faith in those that would steal from the education of the next generation,” Tom sighs, as if he gives a single fuck. He leans against his doorway, and he stares down at Karkaroff who looks ready to get to his knees.

“Tom—”

“Get on your knees and beg. Like a dog.”

And Harry watches as Karkaroff sinks to his knees, as Tom commands. Harry’s stomach turns at the glee in Tom’s burgundy eyes. Tom’s lips curl into a boyish grin, like he takes such pleasure in having this grown man grovel at his feet. Tom leans against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow.

“Tom, _ please_—”

“How unbecoming,” Tom sings. “How _ disappointing_.” Harry watches Karkaroff’s ears flush in humiliation, and the Durmstrang Headmaster scrambles to his feet. Tom tuts to himself, drumming his fingers against his bicep, arms folded over his chest. “How about _ this_, Karkaroff? If your little team beats mine, I’ll forgive all your debts. I’ll even pay for your losses in my ring. How about that?”

Karkaroff draws back like he’s been slapped. He goes white with his rage, and he opens his mouth, then closes it again. Harry lurches when he sees Karkaroff draw his wand, sharp and quick, pressing the point at Tom’s jugular. Tom doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he hisses, and Harry recognizes that for what it is.

_ Parseltongue_.

Summoned, Nagini slithers out from the maw of Tom’s doorway, between his legs and Karkaroff yelps, taking a step back. Nagini is huge and intimidating, Harry knows that from personal experience. She coils at Tom’s feet and then begins to crawl up an offered arm until she’s draped, thick and heavy over Tom’s shoulders.

“I wouldn’t try that again,” Tom says with a smile.

Before Karkaroff can say another word, there’s a sound of conversation from the opposite side of the hallway. Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore round the corner, clearly deep in conversation. The pair pause when they see Karkaroff, rumpled in his white robes and fur, conversing with Tom, draped with his massive snake.

“Ah, Igor! How can I help you?” Dumbledore asks. He smiles genially at Karkaroff. “Severus, do you know Igor?”

“I haven’t had...the pleasure,” Snape drawls.

“Albus, my old friend,” Karkaroff says, voice going higher. “I was only asking Mr. Riddle about why he chose this establishment when his duel has only shown that he would’ve _ flourished _at Durmstrang Institute.”

“Is that so?” Snape asks, disbelief coloring his tone.

Harry’s eyes narrow. Karkaroff is an awful liar.

“Ah, yes, Professor. Headmaster Karkaroff even offered me a position as Durmstrang’s Dark Arts professor,” Tom lies. He’s a much better one.

Still, Dumbledore hums. “Well, I do hope you’ll reconsider. Particularly with your...friend’s disapproval of the Dark Arts. And the distance.”

“Yes, well, there’s still time,” Tom says charmingly.

“Now, come, Igor. Let us have a drink between old friends. And get to know some new ones,” Dumbledore prompts and then, he’s ushering Karkaroff off, casting one more pointed look at Tom.

Tom rolls his eyes behind Karkaroff’s back, and finally, Harry feels like he can slip over. He clears his throat and moves like he’s just arrived, a little louder, a little out of breath. Tom tears his gaze away from the three professors and his lips tilt into something softer when he meets Harry’s eyes.

“Sorry, I just ran from Remus’,” Harry says brightly, lips curling into a grin. He casts a glance down the hallway at the trio of professors. “What was that about?”

“Just three professors taking a walk,” Tom says. He lies so easily to Harry. He tugs Harry forward, presses a soft kiss to his lips, and Harry sighs into it, feeling the weight of Nagini’s head on his shoulder.

When he pulls back, he glances back at the professors. Karkaroff is looking over his shoulder, _ directly _at Harry. Harry shudders and looks away.

“Karkaroff seems creepy. Kinda like Krum,” Harry mutters.

Tom’s eyes narrow. “You met _ Krum_?” he says, spitting the name like a vile curse.

Harry laughs. “Yeah. He’s a bit of a flirt, isn’t he? I’ll tell you about it while you make my tea.”

Tom smirks at Harry's audacity, tugging him into the rooms. "Hmm, I find that there are better things to be doing than discussing Krum over tea," Tom hisses, and Harry's lips curl into a small smile.

"You'll have to teach me some," Harry flirts back because he can't help it.

"I'm an _impeccable _teacher."


	56. SATURDAY, 7:22PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is violence.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I will never fall for your lies again, oh woah oh  
You shot me right in the face with a shotgun"
> 
> -Shoutgun, Yellow Claw

It’s awkward.

But, they’re trying.

It’s the Defence Squad, back together again, after moving onto the next round smoothly.

They’d decided on Hogsmeade to celebrate.

Or rather Luna, Ginny, and Hermione had decided and had dragged their respective parties along.

Now, Ginny is at the front of the pack searching for Zabini, Harry is at the rear, pressed between Luna and Hermione, and staring at Lavender and Ron’s backs. Lavender is resolutely staring forward, chattering on at Ron, and Ron is listening, attentively. The way Ron looks at her. He knows that it’s not just a crush like Hermione says.

Ron is nearly in love with this girl.

And then, Ron looks back, eyes catching on Harry’s face. His expression does something complicated, his upper lip quivering, and then he turns back to Lavender. Harry feels the knot in his chest grow larger and he looks over at Hermione. She’s staring at the two ahead too.

“They look good together, right?” Luna asks sweetly.

“Yeah. They do,” Harry whispers.

Luna hums. “You and Riddle look good together too,” she comments. Harry stiffens next to her, and Luna reaches over, patting his hand. “She’ll see that soon too. Ron, as well. Just give them time.”

Harry smiles down at Luna, and she smiles back up at him as they walk together.

“Do you mind a pint at the Three Broomsticks?” Ginny calls, turning back to them. “Blaise is there now with some of his Slytherin friends, but he is _ more _than willing to make Malfoy go away.”

“If that git disappears, I’m in,” Ron calls back.

Ginny flashes a thumbs up and tromps forward, leading the pack down the main street. It’s only when they’re outside of the Three Broomsticks that Harry hesitates. Lavender and Ron stop almost immediately, and Harry nearly crashes into their backs.

“What’s going on?” Hermione mutters.

And then, Harry sees him.

Tom.

He’s with the rest of the Death Eaters, hanging out outside. The Lestrange brothers are being rowdy with Bellatrix, and Rosier and Nott are talking quietly. Tom is alone, smoking a cigarette, staring off at the light dusting of snow over the ground.

“We can go somewhere else,” Harry blurts out. “Right, Ginny?”

“Lavender?” Ron begins.

Lavender is silent for a long moment before she says, “No.” Then, she steps forward and her lips pull into a smile. “Rabastan Lestrange!”

“Is that my co-duellist?” Rabastan roars, pulling away from his brother almost immediately.

Lavender laughs as she rushes forward, flinging her arms around him. Rabastan picks her up, swinging her in a circle before he raises a hand. She high-fives him hard.

“How’s your foot, you fiend?” she demands.

“Fine, I swear. Madame Pomfrey said to stay off it so I wasn’t duelling in Defence today, but I’ll be fine for next week, if Tom puts me on,” Rabastan reassures. He looks over Lavender’s head at the rest of them and grins easily. “If it isn’t the rest of the Ginny Weasley Defence Squad.”

“Has that really caught on?” Ginny snorts.

“It _ really _has,” Bellatrix deadpans. She already sounds annoyed by their presence. “Potter.”

“Black,” Harry returns.

Bellatrix scoffs, leaning back against Rodolphus as he loops an arm over her shoulders. He pulls her back into his body and Harry raises an eyebrow, unable to help himself. Bellatrix sneers.

“So, tired of being ashamed, then?” Bellatrix asks.

“Never was,” Harry lies through his teeth.

Bellatrix scoffs and looks back at Rabastan and Lavender who have now been joined by Luna.

“Merlin, they’re insufferable,” she mutters.

“Granger, not sure if I had the chance to say it, but bloody well done,” Nott congratulates.

Hermione’s eyes widen and then she grins at the reminder of her glorious duel. She’s drawn into their orbit as Nott and Rosier chat at her about strategy. And Harry can see Ron has _ so much to say_, because Ron loves strategy, but he’s also watching Rabastan with such distrust.

“Rabastan’s gay, you great ginger virgin,” Bellatrix spits.

Ron sputters, and Harry snorts into his elbow. Ron shoots him a vicious look, but relaxes enough to go join Hermione and the other two Death Eaters.

It leaves only Harry.

“To-om,” Harry sings.

Tom doesn’t even look back at him as he responds with a, “_H__a-rry_.”

Harry grins and then he darts past Bellatrix and throws his arms around Tom’s neck, tugging him down for a quick kiss. Tom catches him with one arm, holding his cigarette high over his head so that he doesn’t drop it. Harry frowns.

“You taste like an ashtray,” he accuses.

“I taste like a cigarette,” Tom corrects.

“You should quit.”

Bellatrix snorts. “I’ve told him that for years. He’s hard-headed. Muggle disease sticks.”

Tom rolls his eyes and drops his cigarette to the side, absentmindedly crushing it under his heel. He tugs Harry closer, staring down at him. He hums as he presses his chin to the top of Harry’s head so Harry is staring at Tom’s slightly exposed collarbone.

“You’re wearing the locket,” Tom murmurs, fingering the chain that’s partially hidden beneath Harry’s scarf.

“Of course. It’s my Christmas gift,” Harry mutters against Tom’s chest. He tilts his head up, pressing his forehead against his shoulder. “Should we be doing this?”

“Brown looks fine to me,” Tom drawls. “Weasley—the annoying one, mind you—seems rather peaky, but isn’t that what he always looks like?”

Harry snorts. “Ah, no. He’s displeased with me, still.”

“Your friends hold grudges.”

Harry barks out a laugh, pulling back. He stares up at Tom in disbelief. “_ You _hold grudges. I know that for a fact. Fucking cave,” he laughs.

Tom stares at him with a raised eyebrow, like he can’t believe that Harry’s laughing about the cave in which he traumatized two children for making fun of him. Harry smirks back.

“You’re a wonder, darling. I’ll corrupt you yet,” Tom finally declares. He looks over Harry’s head at his Death Eaters and drawls, “I need three fingers of whiskey.”

“_Finally_,” Rabastan groans. “I’m freezing my bloody bollocks off.”

Tom rolls his eyes, and tosses an arm around Harry’s shoulders, ready to go inside, and then.

And then.

“Hermy-own-ninny! Harry!”

Harry glances over his shoulder and pauses when he sees the group of Drumstrang students trudging through the snow.

It’s not the first opposing school that he’s seen out and about in Hogsmeade. He’d seen Beauxbatons and Castelobruxo students walking together, despite the fact that Fleur Delacour and her team had thoroughly trounced the South American students. But, he also knows that no one has the same kind of rivalry that Hogwarts has with Durmstrang.

Tom’s arm tightens around Harry’s shoulders.

“Viktor Krum,” Hermione says as she abandons her conversation to be at Harry’s side.

And even though Ron isn’t really talking to either one of them, he seems to sense something, and he stands right next to Hermione, arms folded over his chest.

“This is the establishment, the, uh, Three Broomsticks, yeah? We were looking for a drink,” Krum says.

“Yeah, it is,” Ron says gruffly.

The girl at his side is slight, but powerful-looking with corded muscles and thick thighs. Her hair is tied back in a tight braid. She huffs under her breath and in a thick accent says, “It is quaint.”

She mumbles something in Bulgarian, or, maybe, Russian, and the others all giggle amongst themselves. Krum’s lips twitch.

It was definitely unflattering then.

“Maybe we can all have a drink together? Before match-up. Maybe we won’t match-up at all,” Krum says.

“Are you implying that we’ll be losing in the next round?” Rosier asks, his tone clipped and nasty.

The girl with the braid smirks. “Uh, _ da_.”

The Durmstrang students laugh again, falling into one another, and Bellatrix glares.

“You talk a lot for someone so _ little_,” Bellatrix mocks, staring at the girl.

The girl scoffs. “You hide behind men? Come say that here. To my face.”

Bellatrix stalks around the rest of the Death Eaters even as Tom tuts and says, softly, “Bella…”

Bellatrix moves as if she hadn’t heard him and she steps the girl, staring down at her. And very deliberately, she snarls, “You talk a lot for someone so little. Shut your mouth.”

“I’ll shut yours,” the girl barks back.

Krum laughs uneasily, his lips curling back, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes as he looks over at Tom, and then at Harry again. He won’t stop looking at Harry, and Merlin, Harry wants him to stop.

“Let us save this animosity for the duelling platform, yes, Katarina, Black?” Krum asks. “Why don’t we get a drink, Reedle? Harry?”

“Why do you want a drink so bad?” Tom asks sharply, tilting his head. “Do we have something to discuss?”

And that seems to be the crux of it because Krum pauses. There’s something in his eyes that Harry can’t read, and suddenly, he knows it has to do with Igor Karkaroff. Tom pulls away from Harry, stepping forward, a curious look on his face.

The girl, Katarina, and Bellatrix haven’t moved from one another, still staring. Bellatrix’s lips curl into a smile.

“Don’t think so, Tom. I wouldn’t be able to understand a word from this bitch’s mouth—”

And then, Katarina’s fist flashes out, and Bellatrix stumbles back, clutching her mouth. Harry jerks back, crashing into Hermione and she grabs him, jerking him back. He feels a small hand on his other side, and he looks down at Lavender. Her fingers are knotted in his sleeve, like she’s stopping him from joining.

And while he knows what Bellatrix said was wrong and terrible, Harry still flinches when Bellatrix drops her hand from her mouth and she spits blood onto the snow, staining it crimson.

There’s a beat of silence and then Rodolphus rips out his wand, shoving it on the underside of the other girl’s chin. The other Death Eaters join in, roaring their disapproval, meeting back the Slavic curse words that the Durmstrang students spit. Ron grabs onto Rodolphus’ arm, attempting to yank him back, Nott joining him in his attempt to defuse the situation. Even Rosier looks ready for a brawl.

But, Tom stands incredibly still, as if his rage had frozen him, and he’s watching Krum.

Krum is watching him too.

“Reedle, she provoked her,” Krum says.

Tom’s eyes narrow. “Did she?” he says, his voice cold and cutting through the chaos. It’s enough that it stills the Death Eaters somewhat.

“This is bad. This is really bad,” Hermione hisses in Harry’s ear, but it’s like he can only hear her from the end of a long tunnel. He can’t look away.

“Do you know what your problem is, Reedle? It is not your arrogance. I have to admit you are good at what you do. You are skilled duellist, powerful and smart,” Krum says, matter-of-factly. From anyone else, it would sound like flattery, but Krum says it like it’s something foul.

“Why, thank you,” Tom sneers.

And Krum’s face twists, dropping all of that geniality and kindness. “Your problem is that you are nothing more than a _ Mudblood_, attempting to steal money and glory and honor from your betters.”

There’s a beat of silence. Hermione inhales sharply, flinching violently. Harry watches Tom’s face.

Tom turns white, the color of snow, and everyone is suddenly afraid to breathe. His yew wand slips from his sleeve into his hand, and suddenly, his eyes are too bright, too red. Harry flings himself forward, tearing out of Hermione’s grasp. He lifts a hand, and Tom’s gaze flits over to him for just a moment.

“Tom, don’t,” Harry starts.

Tom doesn’t say anything, his nostrils flaring.

The silence begins to scatter as Krum’s words sink into the Durmstrang students, and the girl that had hit Bellatrix begins to giggle. Bellatrix looks wounded and she takes a step closer to Tom, her fingers grazing his shoulder. Tom shoulders her off violently.

Harry starts to breathe harder. He takes a step closer until he’s cutting off Tom’s sight, and he reaches up, pulling Tom’s face towards his, but Tom won’t look away from Krum. “Tom, don’t. Please, don’t.”

And he’s begging. Harry has never begged in his life, but he’s ready to sink to his knees to keep Tom out of this mess. He presses his hands into Tom’s chest, trying to shove him back, but Tom sweeps him to the side with a sharp wave of his wand. Harry stumbles and Hermione catches him, eyes wide.

“_Sectumsempra_,” Tom hisses.

Harry gasps as blood _ explodes _ from Viktor Krum’s chest. Everything moves in slow motion, and Harry wants to _ weep _ at the savage light in Tom’s eyes. Tom grins as flecks of Krum’s blood spray across his face and he watches Krum go down. And then Tom spins, waving his wand and sending the next kid _ flying_. There’s an audible crack and then—

Harry doesn’t know he’s moving until he is.

“_EXPELLIARMUS!_”

Tom spins and he tries to deflect Harry’s spell, but suddenly, the two spells connect and magic explodes, blowing back everyone that isn’t them. Harry holds his own wrist steady as the Priori Incantatum spills around them and Tom stares at him with hard eyes.

“Disconnect the spell, Harry,” Tom whispers. It’s like he’s right in Harry’s ear. “Let go.”

“You’re hurting these people!”

“They deserve it,” Tom murmurs back. And he looks lovely, speckled with blood. He looks lovely and Harry aches inside because of it. Harry looks down and Viktor Krum and his friends are gone. It’s just Harry and his friends and the Death Eaters and _ Tom_.

Harry’s eyes harden. He looks over his shoulder and stares right at Hermione and Ron.

Hermione looks terrified. She holds out her hand.

Harry looks back at Tom and jerks back, snapping the connection. It dissipates in seconds and they stare at one another. Tom takes a step forward.

Harry walks away.


	57. SUNDAY, 10:22AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a breakfast amongst mates.

Harry adjusts his prescription sunglasses on his nose, arms folded over his chest as he waits for by the kitchens. He hasn’t had a chance to really speak to her about _ everything _ since Lavender. He doesn’t even know if she’ll show; she’s been standing rather close to Ron, recently, but Harry can’t exactly fault her for _ that_.

Even still, he almost sags in relief when Ginny turns the corner, still dressed in track pants and a t-shirt. She smiles at him, but there’s something at the edges of her smile that makes Harry tense.

“Hey, Harry,” she says softly.

“Hey, Gin,” he returns and then he tickles the pear and pushes the door open for her. Ginny shoots him a look but he ignores it, following after her into the kitchens where Dobby already has a spread waiting for him.

Sometimes, Harry wonders if Dobby has a sixth sense when it comes to him, and then, he realizes he wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Dobby’s a good friend and has always been one, to Harry.

Ginny doesn’t speak until they’re both seated and buttering some toast. She looks up after taking a bite and she sighs, swallowing it down.

“It was a bit of a mess after you left,” Ginny says.

Harry sips his pumpkin juice. “Was it?”

“Yeah,” Ginny breathes, and she lets out a long heavy breath. “Yeah, it was...they called, um, Madame Pomfrey. Some people that were watching on the side. And she brought Professor Lupin, Professor Snape, and the Headmaster. And um, Karkaroff. The Durmstrang—”

“The Durmstrang Headmaster. I know,” Harry whispers. He looks down at the table, drumming his fingers against the wood. “What happened, next?”

“Um...Snape healed him. Krum. He knew the spell. Um, your boyfriend—”

“Don’t. Call. Him. That.”

Ginny’s eyes widen and then, she glares. “Don’t talk to me like that,” she snaps. “I didn’t know.”

“What do you _ mean_—” Harry spits and then, he takes a breath. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Just...what happened next?”

Ginny sighs and takes a sip of her pumpkin juice and continues, “Riddle was so upset still. He was spitting mad but he didn’t say anything. Karkaroff demanded that we be disqualified from the competition. And then Bellatrix, she went in on the fact that the girl hit her. In the mouth. And that Riddle only retaliated because he called him a…you know, I don’t want to say it.”

“I know,” Harry says gently, because he wouldn’t want to either.

“And the Headmaster asked Tom if it was true, and reminded him of some kind of agreement they have. About telling the truth And Tom said it was. That Krum called him that, and so he retaliated. And, um, Professor Lupin brought up some of the hate crime legislation that your...mum helped with. And mentioned that there are penalties here for hate speech. And because Tom _ is _ a half-blood, and his father _ is _a Muggle...it would apply. And it was said in the presence of Hermione too—”

“What did Hermione say?” Harry blurts out.

Ginny bites her bottom lip. “She was in shock, but, um, she said that she felt it was hateful too, and would...help press charges with Riddle if we were disqualified. So...Karkaroff dropped it.”

Harry lets out a shaky laugh and presses his face into his hands, swallowing hard as he breathes through it. He peeks at Ginny through the spaces between his fingers. She stares back at him, nervously.

“Well, that’s one good thing,” he says when he lets his hands drop into his lap. “Is Krum alright?”

“I...I think so. We’d know if he weren’t, wouldn’t we?” Ginny murmurs.

“I don’t know. I _ do _ know that Tom knew what that spell would do,” Harry says quietly. “He doesn’t...use spells that he doesn’t know about. And that was _ Dark_, Ginny.”

Ginny nods in agreement and she looks exhausted. “It was,” Ginny murmurs. “I know you don’t like the Dark Arts.”

“I don’t.”

“So...what are you going to do about Riddle?” Ginny asks.

Harry closes his eyes. “I don’t _ know_.”


	58. TUESDAY, 5:42PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Tom speak.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "All the gun fights  
And the lime lights  
And the holy sick divine nights  
They’ll talk about us, all the lovers  
How we kiss and kill each other  
They’ll talk about us, and discover  
How we kissed and killed each other"
> 
> -Sober II (Melodrama), Lorde

He makes it two days without talking to Tom.

He’d escaped him on Monday only because he’d slipped into Defence exactly at 9am, and then slipped out promptly at 11pm, aided and abetted by Hermione and a semi-helpful Ron who he still hasn’t had a real conversation with. Then, it had been easy for Harry to find somewhere to be. At first, he’d considered the Room of Requirement, but now, Tom knew that place, and could look for him there. So, he’d found refuge in Remus’ rooms.

That refuge had come to an end.

Harry stumbles and nearly falls when he exits Remus’ rooms through his study and stands at the top of the landing. Down the stairs, and in the center of the Defence classroom, Tom sits on a desk. He’s staring up at Harry, a flat expression on his face.

Harry swallows and slowly descends the steps, keeping his gaze on Tom.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Tom drawls.

“Yeah, I have,” Harry confirms.

Tom hums to himself. “I see. We weren’t disqualified, you know.”

“I know that too. Ginny told me,” Harry says sharply.

Tom nods, tilting his head as he regards him with those strange burgundy eyes. It’s never really hit Harry, how strange it is to have burgundy eyes. Tom slips from the desk, stands, and waits for Harry to finish his descent, until they’re on the same level ground.

“Look at me,” Tom says.

“What?”

“You’re not looking at me. Why?” Tom demands. Harry didn’t even notice that he’s doing everything except making eye contact with Tom. He’s keeping him in sight, because he’s afraid to turn his back, but he can’t look in Tom’s eyes, because it reminds him of the _ blood_. “Can’t we just fight and get it over with?”

“I’m tired of fighting,” Harry hisses.

“No. You’re not,” Tom snaps back. “You _ like _fighting with me, darling. It gets your blood going. Don’t pretend it doesn’t.”

Harry finally looks him in the eye. He takes a deep breath.

He says it: “What you did to Krum was fucked up. You could’ve killed him.”

“Harry, you don’t understand,” Tom sighs.

Harry shakes his head. “No. That kind of magic. That Dark magic, I know you like it. I know you think a license means that you understand all of it. That wild Dark magic. But, do you know what I understand of it? That’s the kind of magic that killed my parents. Do you understand that?”

Tom is silent for a long moment, staring at Harry.

“It wasn’t wild,” Tom says sharply.

“I know. That makes it worse. You knew what you were doing. I know you knew what you were doing,” Harry says softly.

“You _ heard _what he called me—”

“AND THAT MAKES IT OKAY FOR YOU TO ATTEMPT _ MURDER?_” And now Harry is shouting because he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know how else he can make Tom understand that quite literally tried to disembowel a boy for questioning his _ Goddamn _honor.

It makes Harry realize that this is a small reason for Tom to commit violence.

He has never seen it, but he thinks that Tom has committed violence for less.

He _ knows _Tom has committed violence for less.

And suddenly, the cave isn’t funny anymore.

“You’re a violent person,” Harry says, his voice cracking. “Duelling isn’t a game for you. It’s real. You’re a _ violent _ person.”

Tom stares at him in disbelief. He takes a step forward, rolling his eyes, dismissing the words that have fallen from Harry’s lips, like they mean nothing.

And all Harry can think about is the blood on the snow, and Krum’s crumpled body.

_ (They think he doesn’t remember the night of his parents’ murder. He remembers.) _

“Viktor Krum is a manipulative arsehole that called me a _ Mudblood_. Do you understand that?” Tom hisses with a sneer. “He’s arrogant, snide—”

“He’s you. With a Bulgarian accent,” Harry spits.

Tom stares at him, and leans back against the desk, disarmed.

“Viktor Krum let his friend hit Bellatrix in the mouth—”

“Bellatrix is a xenophobic snob,” Harry barks, and maybe that’s a word he’d learned from Hermione after she’d ranted about it, but it didn’t make it any less true.

“You have nothing to say about that girl’s violence?”

“That girl isn’t my boyfriend,” Harry retorts.

Tom’s eyes narrow. “It’s about more than what Krum told me. You don’t understand the implications of what he was saying to me. Perhaps, if you did, then you would understand why people like Krum and ilk don’t respond to words. Sometimes, force is the only way to get things done—”

“Are you gonna hit me?”

Tom stops in the middle of his snarls, and stares at Harry like he’s Confunded. 

“What?” he breathes.

Harry takes another step closer, eyes narrowing. “Next time I say something you don’t like. Are you gonna hex me? Jinx me? Curse me? Are you gonna hit me?”

“I would never—”

“I don’t _ believe _you,” Harry whispers, silencing Tom immediately.

There’s a moment, where they just stand there, staring across the space, and it feels like a chasm. Harry feels himself torn in two, because he knows it’s always been there.

Harry understands now, almost, what Ron and Hermione had been saying.

He had known Tom’s capacity for cruelty but hadn’t thought about it because Tom had never wielded it against him. He had made it okay. He had told himself that it was something that he’d never have to deal with. He’d ignored it.

He had decided to ignore Tom’s penchant for violence too.

It’s time to deal.

“I need space,” Harry whispers.

“Space. What do you mean ‘_space_’?” Tom says, spitting out the word like it’s something vile.

And Harry very carefully chooses his next words, because there can be no misinformation. He does not want Tom to misconstrue or to twist his words against him. He does not want Tom to make a weapon out of Harry’s decision.

So Harry says, “I mean that I need to think about if I’d be okay with the person that I’d become because I need the person that you _ are_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol sorry, I'm late, my alarm didn't go off.


	59. WEDNESDAY, 5:12PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Ron and Harry make up, and Hermione considers what it is to be called unworthy.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Save me being honest, babe  
Save me from your promises  
Take me with your constant shame  
Let me bleed your love away"
> 
> -wandering romance, LIE NING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings at the end of the chapter.

Harry sighs as he slowly descends from his dormitory, having changed out of his school robes, and exchanged them for something more comfortable. Hermione is finally back from her Ancient Runes class. Harry hesitates on the stairs when he sees Ron and Hermione sitting by the fire. They’re the only ones there, their heads bent towards one another. Hermione is balancing her cheek on her hand as she stares at him. Ron sighs and whispers something to her.

Harry only moves when Romilda Vane shoves past him, dragging Colin Creevey behind her.

He walks towards them, slowly approaching, wary of it all.

Ron looks up at him first. Ron swallows hard, glances back at Hermione, but she stares hard at him.

“I reckon,” Ron begins, “that if you were willing to date Riddle even after what happened to Lavender, he’s a very different person. Because you’re a good friend. A great one, even.”

Harry’s face crumples. “Not all the time.”

“No, not all the time,” Ron agrees, softly. He swallows hard and looks away, into the fire. “We agreed. After third year. That there would be no more secrets between us. The three of us. We agreed because it was necessary to keep you safe. Us safe. It was us against the world. And, you didn’t tell me. Why?”

Harry sighs as he collapses onto the couch on the other side of Hermione, using her as a buffer. She still hasn’t spoken.

“Mate—” Harry starts. He stops. He gathers his thoughts. Then. “He hasn’t changed all that much. Clearly. I was stupid.”

“You weren’t,” Ron says. “Because I’ve seen how he looks at you. He cares about you. That’s kilometers different from how he usually is.”

Harry’s breath catches and he sighs, warily.

“I was ashamed,” Harry admits.

“Of?”

“Him. Me. All of it. I knew I should’ve told her. I convinced myself it was better if I didn’t. I didn’t want you to know. Hermione wasn’t supposed to know. She was just...conveniently there,” Harry sighs.

“Convenient?” Hermione snorts. “There’s quite literally _ nothing _convenient about the pair of you.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “We’re not a pair anymore,” Harry says. He leans forward. “I was wrong to say that shite to you mate. About...Lav.”

Ron nods. There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, and then, Ron smiles cautiously. “So, mate...how is he? In bed, I mean?”

“_Merlin! _ Boys!” Hermione groans, falling back against the couch.

Harry throws his head back and laughs, long and hard enough to make people glance over at them. He grins over at Ron and knows that even if the words weren’t spoken—_ I’m sorry _—both of them feel it more than anything.

“He’s good. Great. I’m sorry to report that all of the rumors? Very, _ very _true,” Harry drawls.

Ron laughs, his ears burning red.

“Merlin, really? That makes me a little sad, actually. I guess he’s just as perfect as everyone says,” Ron spits out.

“Clearly not perfect. Krum is really alright?” Harry asks, the aftertaste of his humor leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

Hermione grimaces. “Yeah, I saw him today. He seems alright. Him and that girl, Katarina,” Hermione says, sneering out the names. “Everyone has been talking about it. I know that you...don’t really like gossip when it’s about you. But...that thing. The magic. What was that?”

“Priori Incantatem,” Harry mumbles. “We have brother wands.”

Ron and Hermione exchange looks. “You said...that you’re not a pair? Have you broken up over this?” Ron asks.

“I said I needed space,” Harry says. “He’s violent. And when I tried to make him understand why what he did was wrong, he just...kept making excuses. And saying that I didn’t understand. But, he wasn’t trying to hear what I was saying either.”

Ron nods sagely, because he gets it. He understands. It helps that he’s generally opposed to Tom Riddle anyway.

“And he got away with it, can’t forget that. He’s still Head Boy. He’s still walking around like he owns the place. I mean, Mione stuck up for him, sure, but that was really enough?” Ron asks in disbelief. “If it was anyone else, they’d be in detention every Saturday. Or worse—expelled.”

“He has this thing with Dumbledore. He takes Alchemy with him. I think they’re also close?” Harry says. He shrugs. “You know that he’s Dumbledore’s favorite.”

Ron shakes his head.

“He’s just an arse, Harry. He didn’t take your feelings about the Dark Arts into account. He dismissed you. You’re better off then,” Ron reassures him, clapping Harry on the shoulder. Harry grins at him, and nods, and they feel like they’re back to normal. “Now, do you think I could take a peek at your Transfiguration notes because I’ve barely written my essay. I’ve been preparing for this match with Beauxbatons on Saturday.”

But, Hermione still hasn’t said anything.

“Do you think so?” she interrupts, suddenly. Both boys look at her. “Do you really think you’re better off?”

Harry frowns. “I mean...yes?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione says, staring at him. “I think you were happier than you’ve been in a very long time. With him. I think you were more comfortable and surer, and he made you see how incredible you are.”

Harry rears back, staring at her. “Hermione...you don’t even _ like _him.”

“No, I don’t,” Hermione agrees. “I don’t like his arrogance. I don’t like the people he hangs out with. I don’t like his penchant for the Dark Arts. I don’t like his cruelty. His unkindness. But, he wasn’t like that with you. And you know that.”

“Hermione, he _ cursed _—”

“Have you ever been called a Mudblood, Harry?”

Hermione asks it so suddenly, and Ron flinches from the word. Harry stares at her, brow creased.

“What? No…” he trails off, uncertain of the conversation’s new direction.

“I have,” Hermione says calmly. “I’ve been called a lot of different slurs. The n-word for my skin. Terrorist because of my religion. All things that one could see. And all before eleven. So, when I learned that I was a witch, I thought...well, isn’t that incredible. I’m different. Going to a school full of different people. I’ll never have to hear those words again.”

Harry swallows hard as he stares at her. He can’t help the discomfort that rises in his throat. Hermione seems far too comfortable with this discussion, like she’s heard such violence so much that it means nothing to her anymore.

“But, I got here. And one day...our second year. It was November. Draco Malfoy called me a ‘Mudblood’ because I did better than him on a Charms exam. I didn’t know what it was until someone told me. It means dirty blood. So, I was being disrespected because of the very _ essence _ of who I am. Past my skin, past my religion, parts of me, Draco Malfoy decided the sum was filthy,” Hermione whispers, and her voice quakes with the hatred in her voice. She swallows hard, and looks up at the pair of them. “That’s what Krum did when he called Tom Riddle a Mudblood. He said '_every part of you is worthless'. _”

Ron is so pale Harry can count every one of his freckles. “Mione—”

“And there is no excuse for violence,” Hermione says firmly. “I don’t agree with it. What he did to Krum. But, I know that what he called Riddle was _ vile_. It was meant to dehumanize him.”

Harry swallows because he’s never thought about it like that.

He’s never had to think about it like that. And suddenly, his heart aches for Tom.

And yet—

“He’s a bad person,” Harry whispers. “Outside of this. He is.”

Hermione squints at him.

“Do you ever wonder why? Do you ever wonder what it does to a person? To essentially tell someone that their blood is dirty. That they are..._unworthy _ of the magic that they have inherited,” Hermione asks, and her voice sounds soft, and she seems so far away. “Do you ever wonder what it does to a person who has been told that they were unworthy their entire life until they came here? Came here and became the best, the brightest, the smartest, the handsomest. The Heir of Slytherin. The Head Boy. The future youngest Minister for Magic. And even with all the accolades, with one word, suddenly, they aren’t _ worthy_.”

And Harry can’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussion of slurs, racial and ethnic violence, bigotry
> 
> ~*~
> 
> Hello, everyone. This is a very important chapter to me. As a Black woman, I really wanted to make a comment on the use of the word 'Mudblood' and what Rowling means for it to be a stand-in for. It's a slur and particularly with me making my Hermione an Afro-Arab woman and culturally Muslim, I needed to make it clear that she is no stranger to bigotry. While 'Mudblood' CLEARLY isn't the same thing as the n-word or calling a Muslim person a terrorist (because this is real life, and magic is not), I wanted to make it clear what that kind of word means and what happens when the use of that kind of word is deliberate and weaponized.
> 
> This chapter really explores a lot of the themes that I write about in original fiction, and I will go further in my exploration in Hermione's story, which comes up after this. Let's get hype!


	60. THURSDAY, 2:47PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Lavender and Harry have another heart to heart.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I'm on my back again  
Dreaming of a time and place  
Where you and I remain the best of friends  
Even after all this ends  
Can we pretend?
> 
> I'm on my, I'm on my back again  
It's seeming more and more  
Like all we ever do is see how far it bends  
Before it breaks in half and then  
We bend it back again"
> 
> -WHEN I WAS OLDER, Billie Eilish

Harry doesn’t exactly expect her to be waiting for him outside of the Room of Requirement.

Of course, he’d asked her to join him.

He’d sent her a letter by way of Hedwig, a short one with a question and a time. He’d watched her open it, fold it and slide it underneath her breakfast plate. So, he hadn’t really expected her to show.

But, here she is.

Lavender Brown.

“Lavender,” he says softly as he meets her in front of the wall.

As soon as he joins her, the door melts into existence. Lavender looks up at him, a slow smile twitching on her face. She just looks at him for a long time, like she’s forgotten what he’s looked like, and he’s forgotten what she’d looked like too.

“Harry. Come on,” Lavender says and she grabs his wrist, tugging him inside like she’s the one that invited him. He follows her into the Room of Requirement, and he’s almost relieved when it doesn’t _ quite _look like his room.

Harry shared his room with Tom, and he doesn’t think he could have this conversation in that room.

Instead, this room has a tint of Lavender. It shares his glass walls, the plush pillows on the floor. But, the pillows are pink and purple and silks fall from the chandeliers. There are even snacks, the healthy and sweet kind.

Lavender grins. “How do you think the Room gets food from the kitchens? Does it just magick it away?” she asks.

Harry frowns. “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe?”

Lavender doesn’t seem too invested in finding a real answer. She rushes forward, throws herself into her pillows with a soft grunt, and then rolls onto her back, staring up at Harry. She pats the pillow next to her and Harry slowly kneels there, staring at her.

“You wanted to talk, Harry,” Lavender prompts, staring at Harry solemnly.

Harry clears his throat. “I...yes,” he stops and starts.

Lavender stares at him, waiting.

And Harry could say so many things. There is so much he wants to say. He wants to dissect every moment that he and Lavender shared, every moment he and Tom shared, every moment Lavender and Tom shared. He wants to compare and contrast and show _ her— _

“I think I love Tom,” is what he says instead.

Lavender’s lips tilt into a slow smile. “I should hope so,” she says. Harry’s sharp inhale makes her smile widen. “If you’d done all of this for sex...well, Harry, I don’t think we’d be friends.”

“We’re friends?” Harry asks.

“We’re not?” she retorts. “I told you that I needed time to be angry. Space. Isn’t that what you’re taking from Tom?”

“How did you—”

“We all talk, Harry,” Lavender interrupts. Harry thinks that means that Ron told her. “Listen, Harry, I needed space to be angry, because what you did...really sucked. I trusted you. We trusted each other. You’re the only one that’s ever...we talked about...the disordered eating.”

She names it now.

“Yes,” Harry agrees.

“Relationships, romantic or platonic, are all the same, mostly. Anger is normal,” Lavender says with a shrug. She hums. “So, you’re in love with Tom. Is he in love with you?”

Harry frowns.

“I’m not sure if he’s capable of that,” Harry admits.

Lavender purses her lips, shaking her head. “_Harry_—”

“I’m being serious,” Harry interrupts. “I...know things about him. That makes me think that he doesn’t...feel the way normal people do.”

“Well, he clearly feels deeply for you,” Lavender says, short and clipped and no-nonsense. “I’m a little relieved.”

Harry pauses, eyes widening. “Relieved?”

“Well...I knew he was a fuckboy. I didn’t want to say it because...if you say it out loud, it makes it true, you know?” Lavender asks. She sighs, and she leans forward. “It’s how he always is. I just...I’m glad that there’s something about him that’s human too. That I slept with someone...human. You make him incredibly human, I noticed. He’s very charming, but it’s very fake, isn’t it? But, with you...you can see this edge that is so wholly human that it’s a little hard to look at. I don’t think it’s just that he doesn’t feel the same way that normal people do.”

Harry blinks rapidly, trying to keep a-pace with her rambles.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I think...he doesn’t feel regret, does he? I don’t think he does. He apologized for your benefit, I suspect,” Lavender says, clinically. She nods to herself, like she’s confirming it. “But, I think he feels more than others in other aspects. He feels a lot for _ you _.”

Harry snorts, shaking his head. “I don’t know about that.”

Tom hadn’t looked at him once since Harry had declared his need for space. Duelling practice—held every day now that they were in the throes of the tournament—was full of a tension that Harry didn’t know what to do with. Bellatrix would glare at him, Rabastan would look wary, and Rosier thoughtful.

It was civil. But tense.

“He won’t look at me,” Harry says.

Lavender raises an eyebrow. “Really? From what I’ve seen, he can’t take his eyes off you.”

Harry lets the information sink in. He looks at Lavender for a long moment.

He doesn’t deserve her. Lavender is gracious even when she’s been wronged. She’s kind. She’s sweet. She wants everyone’s happiness before her own. 

_ (Tell her.) _

“I used to have disordered eating too,” Harry admits.

Lavender pauses, eyes widening. “What?”

“Remember when I freaked out, last time we talked about it? Yeah, it’s because it triggered me. I used to have problems with food,” Harry says softly. He taps his fingers against the ground, sighing to himself. “I’m much better now. It had...a lot to do with my guardians before Sirius and Remus. They weren’t good to me. They didn’t always...feed me. Or made me feel like I didn’t deserve the food they gave me. So, yeah.”

He finishes lamely.

Lavender stares at him and then she reaches across, lacing their fingers together. She squeezes tight, smiling at him. Softly, she says, “Thank you for telling me.”

“So...I get it. I understand...the food thing. Sometimes, it’s hard. Sometimes, you feel like the world is crazy and you want...you want to control everything,” Harry says softly.

Lavender squeezes his hand even tighter. She doesn’t have to say anything for Harry to know that this is true for her too. They sit in their comfortable moment of confession, and it’s strange for Harry. This moment where he says what he feels out loud, and Lavender doesn’t say anything at all, but it all still feels like truth.

They let it linger for a moment more.

Then: “So, we all know how he was with me.” Lavender smiles, almost shyly, like it’s the first few weeks of their friendship again. “Tell me. How is he with you?”

Harry is happy enough to push away the raw vulnerability he’d just felt. He tries to find his anger again, the kind that had been so easy to pull from when he’d finally confronted Tom, but he can’t seem to manage it. He knows the softer edges of Tom too.

“He’s not just arrogant, you know. He’s really funny. And kind to me. Always has my favorite tea. He tells me his secrets. Comfortable, in a way that I don’t think he’s really comfortable in reality,” Harry says, softly. “I know everyone thinks he’s so..._ comfortable_, but he isn’t. I know what everyone says that he’s going to be, one day. But, I know what he wants to be. I know the deeper, darker parts of him. And he knows the deeper, darker parts of me.”

Lavender’s eyes go soft, and the corner of her lips twist up into a lopsided smile.

“It sounds like you love him a great deal,” Lavender whispers, nodding to herself, like this confirms Harry’s earlier confession. Again, she asks, “Does he love you?”

And still Harry doesn’t know about that. He doesn’t know if Tom is built for that kind of thing.

He does know this: “He calls me ‘darling’.”

Lavender’s smile turns into a proper grin.

“Oh, that’s quite romantic, isn’t it?” Lavender says, her voice hushed like they’re sharing a secret.

“I suppose it is,” Harry murmurs back. He leans back on his hands, staring at Lavender. “I can’t really talk to anyone about this, I think. Hermione and Ron...they aren’t the romantic type. Ginny is great, but she looks up to me a little too much? And Luna’s…”

“Luna,” Lavender agrees with a nod. She sighs, pursing her lips. “I wasn’t ready before. I was so angry. And embarrassed. I really liked him. A lot. Because I saw the better things too. The good things that you see in him. But, not like you. Because I caught glimpses, and I imagined what would be there. But, you’ve seen the real thing. The good. The bad. The beautiful. The ugly.”

And Harry knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“What he did—”

“And you love him anyway. You love him in spite of it.”

_ (You love him because of it, _he doesn’t tell himself. _And that is dangerous. It isn't enough._)

“Maybe,” Harry mutters, looking away.

Lavender leans into his side. “You like to make things difficult for yourself, Harry. Maybe you should try to let yourself be happy for once. It’ll lessen the lines around your eyes,” Lavender says, letting her head drop to his shoulder. Harry leans his head on top of hers. “Really. Love him.”

Harry closes his eyes and lets himself imagine it.

“Maybe.”


	61. FRIDAY, 9:32PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry looks for Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE look at the warnings at the end of the chapter!

Harry pulls his cloak around him as a barrier against the cold highlands wind, shoulders hunched to his ears as he braves it through Hogsmeade. The celebration of Hogwarts’ win against Beauxbatons echoes behind him, and he’s glad that he’s left Gryffindor Tower behind. It had been too loud, the electric air of victory ringing and Ron’s voice booming as he recited the story of their victory with Ginny’s snarky commentary in between.

And Harry knows what he wants.

He knows _ who _he wants.

Harry sighs as he glances back down at the Marauder’s Map in his fist.

Tom isn’t anywhere in Hogwarts. He’d already checked the Room of Requirement, and he wasn’t in there. Harry had checked all over the map, but the Room’s the only unplottable room of its kind, as far as Harry knows. So, he’s off to Hogsmeade. Harry knows that the Death Eaters like to hang out in Hogsmeade a lot, particularly The Three Broomsticks. He’ll probably find them there.

Harry pushes the door to The Three Broomsticks open, gasping when a blast of hot air hits his face and he shivers under the sudden change of temperature. As he steps in, he sees a large number of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, all hanging out with a few kids from Uagadou, including Olufemi Ayao, and Castelobruxo students.

Harry looks forward to the duel between Uagadou and Durmstrang tomorrow.

Olufemi Ayao is just as good as they say he is. There’s an elegance to the way that he duels that resembles Tom’s, except it lacks Tom’s strange brutality. Olufemi makes everything look effortless as spells fly from his fingers, his elbows, once his toes.

And while Harry thinks it’s nice that everyone’s hanging out—in Hermione’s words, the tournament is meant to ‘_facilitate international magical cooperation’_—Harry is, in fact, still looking for Tom.

He ducks out, frowning as he looks up and down the street. He sees the door of The Hog’s Head creak open, an old man scurrying out, squinting behind him.

That seems suspicious enough to be Tom.

But, as Harry moves forward, a group of students spill out, led by two students—Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum.

Fleur’s nose wrinkles at something Krum says and the rest of the Durmstrang students cackle at his words. Fleur shoots him a dirty look, picking his arm off from around her shoulders, but not moving far enough away from him yet.

Harry sighs and straightens, stalking forward.

The group looks surprised.

“Oh, Harry!” Krum drawls, sounding excited. “Hello, Harry!”

His words slurs slightly, and he’s grinning lazily, like he hadn’t been viciously slashed last time he was on this very road.

“Hi, Krum. Delacour, isn’t it?” Harry asks, nodding at Fleur Delacour.

“Fleur is fine. ‘Arry, is it?” she asks.

Harry nods once. “Yes. I...are any of the Death—I mean, my duelling team in there? Like Rosier or Nott or—”

“Or _ Reedle_?” Krum sneers. “No. None of your friends. Sorry.”

He doesn’t sound very ‘sorry’.

“Oh. Alright,” Harry mutters, frowning to himself. He clears his throat, looks awkwardly at the pair of them, and then back at Katarina who sneers at Harry. “You alright, Krum? I’m sorry that Tom...did that to you.”

“I will live,” Krum deadpans.

From some reason, it makes the other Durmstrang students laugh, Katarina meaner than the others.

“That’s good,” Harry says, and then moves to leave.

Fleur grabs his hand. She looks at him, curiously, her lips tilting into a slow smile. “The Durmstrang students bore us,” she begins, ignoring the protest from the other Durmstrang students. “Would you like to come ‘ang out with us? We are going back to zeir ship. It will be _ fun_!”

She’s genuine. Harry can be dense, but he has good instincts. Fleur Delacour is kind.

“I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“It’s a competition, not war,” Fleur says, tossing her head a bit like a horse. “Isn’t ze point to make friends?”

She sounds so very much like Hermione even though they’re the complete and total opposite from one another. It makes Harry smile, slightly more at ease.

Still, he hesitates.

He looks at these people.

These people don’t know him. They don’t know anything about him, outside of being on the Hogwarts Duelling Team. They don’t know that when he was three years old, his parents were murdered for his mothers’ work in being rights. They don’t know that he is an addict. They don’t know about Tom.

They don’t know his mistakes. His sins. His sorrows.

They know nothing.

So, he can be _ anyone _he wants to be.

He can be _ anything_.

Slowly, he nods, pushes Tom out of his mind as he links arms with Fleur.

“Alright,” Harry decides, an awkward smile crossing his face.

Fleur cheers and the other Beauxbatons students crowd around the pair of them, laughing and introducing them. They usher him down the street, and Harry glances over his shoulder, at the Durmstrang students. Krum is smiling at him.

Harry hates it so he turns back, looking over at Fleur.

She looks relaxed for having just lost to Hogwarts.

The duel between Beauxbatons and Hogwarts had gone as smoothly as it could. It had been over in two rounds though Fleur Delacour and her partner had given the Weasleys a run for their money in their doubles match. Ron had been rendered practically useless against her, but Ginny was a sneaky one.

She’d ended Fleur first, and then, Ron was back in business.

“Sorry that you’re out already,” Harry says softly, and he actually means it, after talking to this girl.

Fleur offers a small smile, and she shrugs. “My team tried ze best zat zey could, but your team was better.”

Harry can’t help his pride. He grins, nodding.

“We’re rather good. A lot of that is luck,” Harry insists.

Fleur laughs. “A lot of it iz because of zat girl. Ze redhead. Her brother was _ distracted_,” Fleur giggles behind her hands.

Harry snorts, rolling his eyes. “Ron is...well, you’re quite pretty.”

“Yes,” Fleur agrees. “But, _ you _aren’t distracted. Neither iz your co-captain. Your...boyfriend?”

Harry purses his lips, and doesn’t quite answer the question. “I’m gay. Tom is an Occlumens,” is what he says, and Fleur doesn’t even push, only nodding.

They fall into easier conversation than Harry would’ve expected. Fleur looks like the type of girl that would get along easily with Lavender, but that Hermione would turn her nose up at. She seems like the type of girl that would humor Luna, without a hint of unkindness.

Harry learns that Fleur has a younger sister named Gabrielle whom she adores, whom she loves enough to have taken with her.

“But she iz very young, so she iz back in that carriage there,” Fleur says, pointing to the house-sized carriage that sits on the lakeside next to the short dock and the Durmstrangs’ ship.

All of the other schools have constructed their own living spaces but they’re sprinkled across the grounds, giving a wide berth to the Whomping Willow. Harry knows that Mahoutokuro sits the farthest away, near the Forbidden Forest. He’s heard rumors that the Mahoutokuro students have snuck into the Forest to practice and research the plants native to Scotland.

“Are we ready to do the drinking?” Krum demands as they ascend on the dock, walking into the ship.

Fleur rolls her eyes. “Viktor iz always ‘doing the drinking’,” Fleur says with a grimace. She turns back to Krum. “You have a duel with Uagadou tomorrow.”

“And ve shall crush them,” Krum insists.

“Olufemi Ayao is said to be _ very _good,” Harry says.

Krum’s eyes narrow. “Who told you dat? Your boyfriend?” he says, spitting with spite. “They conspire together, I’m sure. The enemy of my friend is my enemy. Dat is an English saying ‘yes’?”

Harry doesn’t correct him, squinting at him.

Krum doesn’t wait, storming into the ship. Harry and the Beauxbatons students follow the Durmstrang students in.

Harry pauses when one of the doors creaks open and Karkaroff peeks out.

He looks strange out of his furs and white robes. He surveys the lot of them, his gaze flitting back to Harry thrice. He squints at them.

“Keep the noise down,” is what he says. Then, “And Viktor.”

That is all he says.

Meaningfully. Purposefully.

Krum snorts and nods once. “I vill be ready for tomorrow,” he says.

Karkaroff hums and nods. “Welcome, then,” he says to all of them, but the way he says it, feels intimate and gross, too close. He shuts the door again, and Fleur grins, turning back to Harry.

“Now, let us get a drink in you!” Fleur says, guiding him down the corridor.

The narrow wooden hallway opens up into a seating area full of plush velvet and dark wood, a well-stocked bar cart in the corner.

Krum is already there, grabbing four shot glasses as he ushers Katarina to the table by the corner. Fleur turns back to her friends, saying something in French.

“Fleur!” Krum calls. “Come join us.”

Fleur rolls her eyes.

“How do you know him?” Harry asks.

“Our families are old friends. Viktor used to be fun, when we were kids. Then...Durmstrang twisted him all up. He’s too good at things, for his own good,” Fleur mutters. She unlaces herself from Krum and says something to one of her female friends. The girl straightens, puts a brave face on.

“Bring Harry!” Katarina demands.

“We’re being _ summoned_,” Fleur says rolling her eyes.

Her friend looks at ease again.

Harry leads the way over and sits down across from Krum and Katarina. Katarina raises an eyebrow at him, smirking. Krum is busying himself, pouring the clear liquid into four shot glasses. He passes one to Katarina and takes one for himself, and they down them in one go. Katarina shivers, like she’s suddenly warmed.

“Well, well, Harry Potter. Co-Captain of the Hogwarts team,” Katarina says.

“Yes. Thanks for mentioning the obvious,” Harry says, a little too sharply. He hasn’t forgotten that she was the one that started the altercation last week, even if Tom escalated it.

Or rather Krum escalated it.

“You haven’t duelled yet. Are you on the team because you are good or are you...good at doing other things?” Katarina jeers.

Fleur rolls her eyes. “Grow up, _ chatton_,” Fleur says mockingly.

Katarina’s eyes narrow, and Harry can imagine what Fleur said.

“Nobody was speaking to you, _ Veela— _”

“Katarina, enough,” Krum groans. He flexes his arm, the one that Tom’s spell had cut across, and pours himself another shot.

Harry feels a pang of regret.

“You alright, then, Krum? Really?” Harry asks again, a final time.

Krum grins lazily as he sips his Russian vodka, too crystal clear for Harry’s taste.

“I am fine. I am Slavic,” Krum declares. He seems tired of sipping because he slams back the rest of the shot and sets the crystal glass down on the table. He turns to Katarina where she’s tucked into his side and mumbles something in Bulgarian.

“You’ll drink with us Potter,” Katarina commands.

“Oh. I don’t really drink vodka,” Harry says.

Katarina’s nose wrinkles. “The English are so weak, Viktor,” she sighs into his neck, and Krum giggles to himself.

Harry’s eyes narrow. He knows he’s being goaded, but let it not be said that he’s not a Gryffindor, because he snaps, “Pour me your stupid vodka.”

Katarina laughs, clapping and she lifts the plain bottle of vodka and pours liberally.

She reminds Harry uncomfortably of Bellatrix.

Everything feels like he’s in a mirror world; his world but not quite.

Harry throws back the shot, doesn’t feel it burn at all.

He is used to throwing back potions in secret, quick and fast so no one sees. He slams the shot glass down and glares across the table.

The three international students are impressed.

“Good for you, Potter,” Krum says with a grin. He drinks Harry in, gaze flitting over him.

Harry turns away, uncomfortable. He glances at Fleur. Fleur squints at Krum, like she’s trying to read something. And then, very deliberately, she settles her arm over the back of Harry’s chair, lifting her chin, her swan-like neck on display. Krum’s distracted gaze catches there.

“Dat is a very pretty necklace,” Katarina says, eyes catching on the locket that Harry still wears. Harry swallows when he notices that it's fallen out of his shirt. He grabs it, hiding it from the others, but too late. “A green ‘S’. Slytherin is a House, yes?” Katarina asks.

“Reedle, then,” Krum says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry retorts coldly. Krum raises his hands in surrender. “What is Durmstrang like?”

That’s enough to distract Katarina. She launches in a strange, brutal tale of learning curses and bewitchings at the young age of eleven. Harry learns that the Dark Arts program is not something of myths and legends, but based truly in fact. Few are allowed to take it. Harry learns that, of course, the Duelling Team is part of the few. She even mentions Gellert Grindelwald.

At this Krum frowns. “Don’t talk about _ Grindelvald_,” he snaps.

Katarina sighs, rolling her eyes.

“Why?” Harry asks.

“Grindelvald was a bad vizard. He carve his symbol into a vall at Durmstrang ven he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it onto their books and clothes thinking to shock, make themselves impressive—until those of us who had lost family members to Grindelvald taught them better,” Krum says, darkly, eyes narrowing. [1]

Harry pauses.

He has a memory, a deep one, from being a first year. He remembers when he was young and willing to take it, how Draco Malfoy used to whisper to him about rats and how well they served. Rats like Wormtail. Hermione had punched him in the third year. Malfoy had never said another thing about rats to him again.

“I understand that,” Harry says quietly.

Krum seems to sense that they have something in common. He lifts his shot glass in salute.

Katarina rolls her eyes. They fall into easier, more neutral conversation.

Fleur speaks on Beauxbatons. It is something that Krum seems to have heard before, but Harry has not. He listens, and he drinks. He laughs, and he drinks. Russian vodka is nothing compared to the burn of going without euphoria for too long. This is not that. Euphoria. It is nowhere near close.

That is what Harry needs, he thinks.

Something that _ isn’t _euphoria.

Time passes.

He isn’t sure how much.

It is past curfew.

He moves. He isn’t sure how. Or why. He stands in the dim corridor, looking into the mouth of the room where the music being blasted sounds a little more Muggle than he expected. Weird Eurotrash electronica. He suspects one of the Durmstrang students is a half-blood, if not a Muggleborn. It just makes Harry think harder about what Krum called Tom.

Harry laughs as Fleur does a pirouette, showing off for the room, dazzling most of the boys.

He is joined by Krum.

He isn’t sure why.

“You are having fun, yes?” Krum asks.

Harry snorts. “Yes, I guess.”

“_Good_,” Krum declares. He watches Harry. Harry stares back, lifting an eyebrow.

“Did you need something?” Harry challenges.

Krum seems content to just stare for a while.

“I really don’t see why Fleur is your friend,” Harry says firmly. His eyes narrow. “You’re a bit insufferable, I think.”

“Harry Potter.” Krum says his name, leaning back against the wall opposite Harry. Harry frowns up at him, eyes narrowed, glaring. “I vas right.”

“About?” Harry asks.

“I spoke about you to Katarina. After you rescued me,” Krum drawls.

Harry snorts. “I didn’t rescue anyone. I’m not even sure if you deserved to be rescued anymore,” Harry says, short clipped. “What did you say about me to Katarina?”

“Tom Reedle does not deserve you. You are a beautiful specimen. Powerful, too, I am sure.”

“Don’t call me a ‘specimen’,” Harry bites back. He notices that Krum doesn’t say anything about if he deserved to be saved.

“He is _ unworthy_.”

Harry thinks that Krum knows _ exactly _ what he did when he called Tom that _ word_.

“And you are?” Harry asks.

Krum takes a step forward. “I tink so, yes,” he says, his accent heavy. He lifts a hand, his fingers going from Harry’s jaw.

Harry frowns and draws his wand.

He’s drunk.

He’s a beat behind.

Krum’s fingers wrap around his wrist and slams it back, pinning it to the wall. Harry jerks, glaring up at him.

“Let go of me,” Harry says, jaw clenched.

Krum hums. “I don’t tink so,” he says, pressing himself closer, the length of his body against Harry’s, and then Harry feels something in his chest, next to heart, where it crushes his lungs flat and he gasps, trying to breathe, because he can’t—_ he can’t. _

_ (Fear, _ he thinks later. _ You were so afraid. _)

Harry jerks under him, violent, feels those thick fingers digging into his wrist. “Get the _ fuck_—” and he swings his other hand, a fist into Krum’s head. Krum’s block head snaps to the side, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

Instead, he grabs Harry’s other hand and spins him, pinning him up against the wall. Harry tries to scream.

“_Silencio_.”

Harry gasps silently as his wand hand cramps and his wand clatters to the ground, out of reach. Krum’s fingers tighten, and then, they let go, dragging down to his waist, his hips, squeezing hard enough through Harry’s jeans to bruise. Harry bucks back, throwing his heel back between Krum’s legs, but not high enough, his foot catching Krum’s thighs.

Krum grabs the chain of the Slytherin locket and pulls back tight, tight enough to turn the locket into a collar. And then, he lets go, making Harry’s head thump violently against the wall, dazing him.

The door to the right creaks open.

Karkaroff peeks out again. He stares directly at Harry. At Krum.

_ Help, _Harry mouths.

Karkaroff shuts the door again, and Harry _ screams_.

_ (No one can hear him, but he’s screaming. He’sSCREAMINGSCREAMING—) _

** _(DARK.)_ **

It comes back. He comes back. His jeans are undone, the button gone, a hand sneaking down the front of his stomach, along the trail of hair going—

_ (HE’Sscreamingscreaming—) _

_ — _cries out. Harry spins. Krum is clutching his nose, blood streaking down his chin, eyes enraged. Harry stares at him, horror and horrified, his teeth bared back. Krum comes at him—

—blood in Harry’s mouth, in Harry’s teeth, a bite in Krum’s throat, a wand in Krum’s hand—

A flash of silver. Harry does not recognize the language. He is drunk. There is too much. She shouts. She’s shouting. Silver and then hands on him, smaller, daintier, and kinder. He does not know them. The names. The faces—

_ (he’s screaming.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: sexual assault
> 
> ~*~
> 
> [1] J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
> 
> ~*~
> 
> Here is the chapter that I've been really worried about. Please take care of yourselves. Remember: I've promised you a happy ending.


	62. SATURDAY, 7:32AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, Harry wakes up
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "The world was on fire and no one could save me but you  
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do  
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you  
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you"
> 
> -Wicked Game, Ursine Vulpine ft. Annaca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings

The world happens in sharp relief.

He is warm.

He is in a world of white.

He does not feel safe.

Harry lets out a shaky breath as he sits up, his vision a blur around him. He reaches around, grasps for his wand. He can’t find it. His breathing comes quicker and his stomach turns as he looks around and around, searching, but only sees shades of white.

And then a dark spot.

He grabs at his glasses, rams it onto his face painfully.

_ Focus_.

He is in a bed.

Harry is in a bed and it is not his.

His stomach lurches as he looks around and finds two heads. They’re both platinum blonde, two bodies between him and the door. He shivers, slowly reaching for the covers and pulling them back, and he sags in relief when he sees that they’re both dressed.

He’s still dressed.

Except—

_ (fingers tugging on his shirt, fingers tugging on his pants, hands on his hips, his waist, his neck, his face, teeth in his collarbone, all of them unfamiliar—) _

He’s wearing his jeans from yesterday. The zipper’s broken, the button missing. He looks down where purple handprints paint his hips, a matching set on his waist. Harry looks down at his wrists, at the handprints like shackles, and a scream catches his throat. He pushes himself from the bed, crawling forward, staggering out.

He can’t find his wand.

He can’t find his _ wand. _

Harry falls back against the wall, breathing hard as he looks at Fleur Delacour’s face.

She’s still sleeping, unaware that she’s the only witness.

There are hands everywhere, and he can barely remember outside of the violence, the aching pain that sits just underneath his skin. Harry grabs at his hair, breathing hard and then, he trips over his own shoes. He grabs them in his hand before he bolts from the room, terror tearing at him as he slams through the corridor, nearly bumping into a Beauxbatons student.

He ducks his head as he searches for the exit, and finally finds it, a carriage door propped open.

Harry stumbles out of it and the world is too bright.

He’s by the lake.

He can see the top of the Durmstrang boat.

Harry turns away and staggers across the snow, the cold stinging his feet. Harry takes another shaky step forward.

And then it happens all at once and he spews bile, a sick yellow against ivory.

He stares at the contents of his stomach for a moment.

Just one.

And then, Harry puts his shoes on and continues his walk back to the castle.

_ (whathappenedtome? whatdidhedotome? whathappened? whathappened?) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: reference to sexual assault


	63. SATURDAY, 8:09AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry sleeps.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "What a wicked game to play  
To make me feel this way  
What a wicked thing to do  
To let me dream of you  
What a wicked thing to say  
You never felt this way  
What a wicked thing to do  
To make me dream of you"
> 
> -Wicked Game, Ursine Vulpine ft. Annaca

Harry is sitting in the shower.

He can’t get up.

The water crashes over him, flattening his hair to the nape of his neck, over the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. He presses his forehead against his knees and lets the heat wash everything away. He wants the heat to burn it away.

_ (Nothing goes away. Nothing is forgotten.) _

Harry lets out a gasp, staring up at the ceiling and then at his wrists. He presses a thumb into the bruise on his right wrist, tries to lay his hand there to make it match up. Nothing lines up. He didn’t do this to himself.

Harry knows he didn’t do this to himself.

He knows who did this to him.

He sinks lower into the shower, and wishes it was a tub. He sinks lower and wishes that he might drown. He will not drown. He does not drown.

He hears the door creak open and he stiffens.

“Harry? Is that you?”

Harry lets out a shaky breath, because it’s Ron. It’s only Ron. And Ron is safe. Ron is one of the safest. He moves to sit on his knees, the water still thundering down on his back.

“Yes. I’m showering. I think I’m coming down with something.” He congratulates himself. His voice is steady. He is steady. He will not crack. He will not let himself break.

“Oh.” Ron takes a beat of silence. “Where were you last night?”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He swallows.

“Are you really going to interrogate me while I’m in the shower?” he asks, voice hard.

“I was just—”

“Well _ don’t_,” Harry snarls.

There’s another beat of silence, and then, Ron loudly storms from the room, wounded. Harry sags in relief, and drops his head down, lets the water fall on the back of his neck again.

Eventually, he manages to stand up. He stands to his feet and washes, drenching himself in soap, scrubbing his skin raw, until he’s mostly red, spattered with bruises. He doesn’t inspect the bruises on his hips and waist like the ones on his wrists. He doesn’t want to look at those. Eventually, Harry steps out of the shower and wraps himself with towels.

He goes to reach for his wand.

He doesn’t know where his wand _ is_.

Instead, he reaches for his clothes and creeps into the empty dorm. Ron isn’t here. That’s good. Harry sighs and turns to his trunk, wrenching it open. He digs into it, digs deeper through the mess of inkwells and notes and old essays. He gets to the bottom and tosses the clothes in, the torn shirt, the jeans with the broken zipper.

For a moment, he clutches the locket to his chest.

The Slytherin locket.

_ Tom’s _locket.

Harry feels sick.

He kisses it, feels cool glass under his lips, and then, he presses it into the bottom of his trunk too.

He changes into a long-sleeved shirt, one of Dudley’s old ones. He changes into baggy sweatpants. Harry runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long breath as he stands at the end of the bed, stares at his sheets.

He gets into bed.

He sleeps.


	64. SUNDAY, 11:36AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Durmstrang v. Uagadou occurs.
> 
> ~*~  
"My body is a cage that keeps me  
From dancing with the one I love  
But my mind holds the key"
> 
> -My Body Is A Cage, Peter Gabriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings.

Harry does not go to the match.

He lays in bed, under his covers. He doesn’t see anything but cracks of light slipping under the comforter.

He does not know how much time has passed.

He does not care.

And when there’s a weight at the end of his bed, a hand over the lump of his feet, the only reason he doesn’t scream is that he recognizes that weight, that hand. He had stolen comfort from it a thousand times before. He thinks he will a thousand times after.

“I didn’t see you at the match. Ron says you’re ill?” Hermione says.

Harry says nothing.

“Well, I brought you soup from the kitchen. You should at least drink the broth. You need nutrients to help you when you’re sick. You know how important eating is,” Hermione says. She adjusts at the edge of the bed. The mattress sinks lower so he knows that she’s sitting entirely on the edge, facing him. “It was Uagadou vs. Durmstrang today.”

Harry starts to shake. Hermione doesn’t stop stroking his feet.

“It was really good. Olufemi Ayao was first. Against Katarina. He’s as good as they all say he is. There were a few more officials there today. Semi-finals. I think the Head Auror, Rufus Scrimgeour, was on the verge of throwing a visa at Ayao’s face after his match,” Hermione says softly. As she speaks, she moves closer, her voice getting louder. Harry twists towards it, finding comfort there.

He wants to tell her, but his voice is stuck in his throat.

All he can remember is a _ Silencio_, and the way that he screamed, but no one seemed to hear.

He’s breathing faster now, on the edge of hyperventilation when Hermione’s hand lands on his head. Harry stops breathing altogether.

Then, slowly she begins to card her fingers through Harry’s hair, rubbing at his scalp. Harry shudders and rolls closer to the warmth of her body, like an overgrown cat. Hermione hums.

“But, in the end, they should’ve put Ayao up against Viktor Krum. He beat that one girl in the third match. He was good. Not as good as Ayao. I think it all came down to how they did the match-up,” Hermione says.

And Harry hates that _ name_.

He doesn’t want to hear that _ name _ever again—

“Harry, habibi,” Hermione begins again. Her voice is so soft. “What’s wrong?”

Harry opens his mouth. He wants to tell her. He wants to tell her about the hands, hands everywhere, and the way he can’t remember anything but patches draped in fog. He wants to tell her—_I think I’ve been Obliviated because I can’t_—except he doesn’t. He won’t.

He can’t.

So, Harry says nothing and burrows deeper into her side instead.

Hermione sighs, nodding. She won’t push him. Not when he’s like this.

Harry knows this.

They lay like this for a long time, just two people and Harry sucks up her warmth and wonders if he’s sucking up everything about her, wonders if she’d be better off without him. He wonders if she should be touching him because he feels _ filthy— _

“Hey. How’s he doing?”

Hermione’s fingers pause in Harry’s hair. He must make a noise because she begins the motions again, soft and soothing.

“I don’t know,” Hermione says, and she sounds frustrated but like she’s trying her best not to be. Harry hates that he’s done this to her. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Did he speak with Riddle yesterday?”

“No. Riddle wouldn’t speak to me until I mentioned Harry, and then, when I asked if they’d fought, he’d said that he was in the Slytherin Common Room all night and hadn’t seen or heard from Harry since Harry said that they needed ‘space’,” Ron says. He sounds equally frustrated. Harry hears him move closer and he sighs when he feels his presence above him. “I think I believe him.”

“I don’t see why he’d lie,” Hermione agrees.

Ron lingers at the edge. “So…Harry?”

“I think he’s sleep—”

Harry’s hand darts out from the blankets before he can ever decide to do so. His fingers catch on scratchy familiar wool, the wool of one of Mrs. Weasley’s sweaters, and Harry pulls down. Ron kneels up on the edge of the bed and moves hastily. Harry hears two shoes hit the ground, and then against his back, he feels Ron’s long body. He's pressed between his two favorite people in the world and he feels _safe._

_(He feels safe. They always make him feel safe. And brave.)_

“Maybe not, then,” Hermione corrects.

Ron shifts, getting comfortable. “Yeah. I did...something strange did happen. There was a package for Harry. A random bird from the Owlery dropped it in front of me while I was talking to Riddle and...it wasn’t very well wrapped,” Ron says shiftily.

“Did you open it? What was inside?” Hermione demands.

Ron clears his throat. “Um...Harry’s wand.”

Harry shivers. He doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to feel, and— _ (hethinkshestillmightbescreaming). _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: reference to sexual assault and the terrible feelings associated with it


	65. SUNDAY, 6:13PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry goes to the Hospital Wing.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "My body is a cage that keeps me  
From dancing with the one I love  
But my mind holds the key  
You're standing next to me  
My mind holds the key
> 
> Set my spirit free  
Set my spirit free  
Set my body free"
> 
> -My Body Is A Cage, Peter Gabriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings at end of chapter.
> 
> Sorry this was late. I missed my alarm.

When Harry wakes up again, he is alone.

He sits up in his bed, and looks out the window. It’s dark now.

But, it doesn’t feel all that late. He looks around and there, on his night table, is his wand. Harry makes a terrible noise in the back of his throat and he grabs it, feeling the holly heat up in his hand. He presses it to his chest, feels like a piece of his has been returned. It reminds him that there are pieces of him missing still.

He lifts his wand, waves it with a flourish, and watches the wand spit sparks, like it’s rejoicing with him.

“_Tempus_.” His voice is hoarse. Like he’s been screaming.

It’s dinnertime.

Harry knows that Ron and Hermione will be back. They always come back when he’s in one of these funks. He can’t imagine what they’re thinking.

_ (They think you’ve relap—) _

Usually, he sleeps through their dinner. But, now, he won’t. He slips out of bed and cracks his back. Even in his Weasley sweater, in his sweatpants, he feels exposed. He feels naked _ (without his locket). _ He grabs his cloak too. He doesn’t know why. He isn’t sure where he’s even going.

Harry reaches for the Marauder’s Map.

“_ ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good’ _,” he says.

He watches the ink of Hogwarts spread, watches everything manifest and come into being. He stares, searches for a name.

He finds it: _ Tom Riddle._

It’s in his room, surrounded by the other Death Eaters. Harry presses his fingers to the name and lets out a hoarse sound. He wants Tom. He wants him so bad, he aches with it.

He won’t go to him.

Harry needs to go to someone. He needs someone to tell him what to do, how to _ handle _ this. He’s going crazy. He feels too much, he can’t put it into words, it sits on the back of his tongue. He gags on all that _ Goddamn _feeling.

He _ needs_—

Harry stands and gasps when his skin twinges. He wrenches up his sweater, stares at the bruises. They’ve darkened in the past two days, violent marks of black on his skin. He doesn’t want anyone to see. He never wants anyone to see. He tugs his sleeves down harder, stretches them over his fists and bows his head forward.

He glances at the Map again, searches for Hermione and Ron’s names. They’re not in the Great Hall with Ginny, Luna, and Lavender. Harry’s stomach turns when he sees _ his _name and he moves past it, going back over to look for Hermione and Ron again.

They’re eating in the kitchens.

That means they’ll be done soon. They’re trying to get back to him.

Harry shakes his head, because if they see he’s awake, they’ll ask what’s wrong, and Harry can’t answer. He doesn’t know what to _ say._

They’ll ask, _ where did you go? Where was your wand? Why didn’t you have you wand? _

They’ll see the black marks on his skin, and ask, _ Who did that? Why did you let them? _

_ (He knows, he knows that they’d never ask that last question, but he can’t shake it. He thinks they might and he couldn’t bare it.) _

Harry gasps and jumps violently when the door opens. He stares wide-eyed as Dean Thomas and Padma Patil stumble in, kissing one another with an abandon, hands in each other’s hairs. They wrench apart when they notice Harry staring.

“Oh, sorry, mate! Didn’t know anyone was in here,” Dean says, eyes wide, like he thinks he’ll get in trouble.

Padma’s staring at Harry, eyes squinting, like she’s examining a wild animal.

“Harry, are you—” she begins.

“I’m fine,” he gasps and then he slides into his trainers and darts from the room. “Sorry!”

Then, he runs down the stairs, wand and Map held tight in his grip. He creeps down into the Common Room and there’s no one. He lets out a breath and continues his journey out. He looks down at the map and flinches when he sees that name_—Viktor Krum_—moving, along with _ Katarina _ _ Svobodová._ Harry moves faster when he sees them leaving the Great Hall.

Harry’s practically running when he sees them begin to ascend the stairs, like they’re coming straight for him. He slips down the moving staircase, exits on the third floor and darts for the back stairs. He knows this path like his own bones now. He knows where to go with his eyes closed.

Harry lingers in front of the double doors to the Hospital Wing for a moment.

He looks down.

Katarina and Krum have wandered off towards the library. They’re exploring.

Harry does not want them to come across him.

“_Mischief managed,_” he whispers.

The Map disappears and he shoves it in his back pocket, folded and crumpled. And then, he pushes the doors open.

Harry doesn’t mean to, but he startles Madame Pomfrey.

She’s busying herself with the freshly laundered sheets, all in a cart. She’s standing in the middle of the Wing, waving her wand. The sheets find their proper place, well-folded and creased. She jumps when she notices Harry standing in the doorway.

“Harry Potter? Well, what is it, dear?” Madame Pomfrey asks. She frowns as she glances outside, and then, she turns back to him, reproachful. “Isn’t it dinnertime, Mr. Potter?”

“I can’t eat,” Harry bites out. He can’t quite look her in the eye.

“Well, why not?” she asks, just a little more gentle. “When was the last time you ate?”

Harry thinks back.

“I...Friday,” he admits.

Suddenly, he feels a gnawing sense of pain where his stomach should be. He feels like he’s eating himself alive, with all the pain and horror that entails. He looks up at her, and she stares at him like she’s haunted, like he’s the one doing the haunting. Madame Pomfrey frowns.

“What happened?” she asks again, a little more frantic. “Should I call Healer Strout—”

_ (SHECAN’TKNOW. SHE CANT—) _

“_No,”_ Harry barks out, panicked. “It’s not...it’s not...may I have Bruise Removal Paste?”

Madame Pomfrey pauses. “Harry.”

“I just...I need Bruise Removal Paste,” Harry repeats. He takes another shaking step forward and pulls his cloak from around his shoulders, folding it over one arm. He lets Madame Pomfrey get closer; she looks kind, and she has always been kind to him.

She won’t hurt him. He knows that. She takes him by the shoulder and slowly guides him towards the bed that he always claims, a partition separating his space from the rest of the Wing. Harry leans back against the side of the bed, moving shiftily.

“For where?” Madame Pomfrey asks, her words measured.

“Here.” Harry slowly pushes his sleeves up. Madame Pomfrey gasps, her eyes caught on the hand-shaped bruises on his wrists.

“Oh, _ Merlin. _Harry, is there anywhere—”

Harry pulls his sweater up, shoves his waistband just enough to show the two matching sets. He can’t look at her anymore.

Madame Pomfrey takes a ragged breath, inhaling sharply and painfully.

“Oh my...oh Merlin.” Madame Pomfrey stammers. Harry stares at the wall, waiting for her to say something. Waiting for her to ask. “Who did this—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says softly.

He sits on the bed and pulls his knees to his chest, staring at nothing. Madame Pomfrey is silent for a long moment as she processes the bruises painted across his skin. They’re becoming starker at his ribs, his hips, darkening with age. They’ll turn yellow by the middle of the week. Harry has always been a fast healer.

Madame Pomfrey swallows. “Would you like to be admitted to the Hospital Wing for the night?” she finally asks.

“Yes, please. Please don’t tell my parents.”

“Harry, I—” Madame Pomfrey says.

“I know...that with the kind of...wounds or trauma that I went to, you’re not allowed to disclose unless I say so. That’s...that’s the rules at St. Mungo’s. Are those the rules here?” Harry asks, looking up at her with wide eyes.

_ (He knows this because there was another girl in rehab that used to have bruises like these. She’d been a slow healer, strung out as she was) _

“Harry, you’re underage…” Madame Pomfrey begins.

Harry’s eyes narrow up at her. He leans forward, digging the jut of his nails into his knees, through his jeans. The dull pain grounds him. “You don’t know what it is. Don’t tell anyone,” he says his voice even harder.

“Did Mr. Riddle—”

“_No_,” Harry snarls. “It has nothing to do with my ex-boyfriend.”

Madame Pomfrey can read the truth there. She falls silent and nods once. “Alright, Harry. I’ll admit you for the night. But if I do, Professor Lupin will be sent an automated message. I can say that it’s because you felt overwhelmed. Is that alright to say?” she asks.

Harry nods once and looks away.

Madame Pomfrey sighs and bustles a way, her breathing slightly heavy. She goes into her office and Harry plays with the sheets. He feels utterly alone, but here, he feels almost safe. Like he had in his bed, buried underneath sheets and his comforter.

When Madame Pomfrey returns, she sets Bruise Removal Paste on his bedside. “Apply this liberally,” she commands. She looks uncertain and nervous. She swallows. “And...take this.”

Harry stares silently at the vial.

It is small.

And unassuming.

He knows what it is. He can taste it on his tongue.

A Calming Draught.

“This is only enough to last you for the night and the next day. Do you understand me?” Madame Pomfrey demands, her voice hard.

“Does Miriam know—”

“Miriam Strout has made me your primary caretaker when she isn’t available. And you don’t want me to firecall her. Do you?” Madame Pomfrey demands.

Harry closes his eyes and imagines telling her what happened. All that happened.

_ (when you allow yourself to want, shit like this happens, _ he tells himself. _ Bad shit.)_

All he can taste on the back of his tongue is shame.

“No.”

Madame Pomfrey nods once. “Okay. Then, this is what you get. For one day. You get to feel nothing.”

It is the best gift anyone has ever given him.

So, Harry applies the Bruise Removal Paste liberally, smearing it on his waist and his hips, over the blackened fingers that stain his skin. He watches the yellow paste sink into his skin and immediately, the ache goes away, though he can feel phantom limbs on his skin, still. Only when he’s done does he look at the Calming Draught again.

He picks it up with shaky fingers, thumbs it open.

He takes a swig. It is the lowest tier in his preference of vices, Calming Draught. It is the weakest. But, he _ missed _its taste.

He lets it waver on his tongue before he swallows. Harry lays back against the pillows and stares at the ceiling. He feels so much. Shame, spite, grief, and something larger and darker that he never lets himself feel, not really. He _ feels _.

He feels—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: reference to sexual assault, (magical) drug use


	66. MONDAY, 11:12AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is one of the sad people that Luna knows.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Flushed out the demons  
And I've been blaming someone else  
I have my reasons  
Why I couldn't be myself"
> 
> -Say I'm Sober, Billy Lockett

Harry hasn’t gone to the thestrals with Luna for a long time.

The last time he remembers clearly is that time that Ginny had come across them. He almost smiles when he remembers what Luna had declared to Ginny.

_ I told you that I’m friends with plenty of sad people_, Luna had said.

Harry had sputtered, mumbling how he wasn’t sad.

He doesn’t think he’s sad now.

He’s...nothing.

He sits on the log, hands pressed between his thighs as he watches Luna flit about, feeding raw chocks of meat to the thestrals. They gather around her and she laughs, looking like a bright spot against the dark and snow. She has always looked ethereal, like one of the Fae—the kind of Fae that’s long gone from this Earth, the kind that mortals don’t see anymore. Luna looks over at him, and there’s something sad in her eyes despite her smiles.

Like she knows.

He doesn’t want her to know.

“Philip seems a little ill,” Luna observes, her voice sweet. She pats Philip’s side, running her hand over his back, and when she gets to his flank, she pauses. She’s staring. "_Oh_, Philip is a girl! Harry, I think Philip is going to have a _ foal_!”

She sounds so happy. Harry can’t help but smile, just a little, even if it feels hollow. He sits with his shoulders hunched and glances down at his wrists. He’d reapplied Bruise Removal Paste before he’d gone to his classes. He’d wrapped it with linen. No one had noticed after Madame Pomfrey’s well-placed _ Notice-Me-Not Charm. _

Except, Tom had looked at him. Tom hadn’t stopped looking at him at all during Defence Against the Dark Arts. He’d looked at Harry like he knew, and it’s been too much.

Harry had stumbled from the room after class and found himself in a broom closet.

He’d taken three big gulps of Calming Draught before he’d emerged, and went back to the classroom, where Hermione, Ron, and Lavender had waited, confused.

_ Bathroom, _he’d lied.

It was always so easy to lie when he was numb.

“That’s really great, Luna,” Harry says, a beat too late.

Luna’s brow furrows. She feeds the last and biggest piece of meat to Philip-the-pregnant-thestral before she wipes her hands clean with a cloth from her bag. Then, she joins Harry on the enormous log at the side of the paddock. She looks at him, bug-eyed.

“Are you alright, Harry? You haven’t been to the paddock with me in a long while,” Luna says gently.

“Well, I like spending time with you, Luna, and we haven’t spent a lot of time together recently, have we? It’s been duelling club and the Defence Squad and—” Harry’s voice cracks before he can say ‘Tom’.

“Tom Riddle,” Luna finishes for him. She purses her lips, like she’s thinking about saying something about him, before she shakes her head. “Yes, but you only come here when you’re very sad, Harry. I know seeing them reminds you of your parents.”

That’s one thing Harry adores about Luna. She never hesitates. She says what she thinks, and she never means to hurt, so it never does.

“I—” Harry pauses. He hesitates a lot when he’s numb. When he’s reaching for that feeling of euphoria, and this doesn’t feel anything like it, but it’s on the edge. “Something happened to me.”

Luna reaches over and takes his hand. Her hand feels small in his, but so much stronger. He squeezes hard.

“What happened?” Luna asks softly.

“I can’t...something very bad. Very, very bad.”

Luna doesn’t ask him any more questions. They sit together for a long time, hunched together against the cold, watching the thestrals move. Harry swallows, sinking into her heat, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. Luna’s cold nose, brushes against his throat, where it’s exposed despite the scarf wound tight.

Harry’s eyes sting, but he can’t really cry.

That’s one of the things about Calming Draught. It dampens you to your emotions, even if you feel them so acutely that it makes your bones ache. Harry aches, but he can’t really _ do _anything about it. It’s why he doesn’t like it.

He’d rather be numb.

He’d rather be _ euphoric_.

Harry reaches for his back, fingers digging and searching until they find the crystal vial. Harry pulls out the Calming Draught. There’s only a third left.

Harry downs it like a shot. Luna looks at him through narrowed eyes.

“What was that?” she asks, sounding sterner than usual.

She shouldn’t. She doesn’t know anything about Harry’s past.

But, he forgets that she’s very perceptive.

Already, he starts to feel more numb. He wants to feel _ nothing_, but there’s nothing else. He needs more. And Madame Pomfrey won’t—

“Calming Draught,” Harry says softly. “Madame Pomfrey gave me some because I was a little...yeah, I’m fine.”

Even as he says it, he lets Luna guide his head down into her lap and her arms wrap around him. She leans forward, her hair blanketing his face. He stares at the silvery locks and sighs.

“I’m fine,” he repeats.

“Are you sure, Harry?” Luna asks, gently.

_ (He is not fine. He wants to feel numb. He _ ** _needs_**_—) _

“I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, the moment with Ginny, Luna, and Harry with the thestrals is a reference to "cherry bomb", Chapter 9
> 
> ~*~
> 
> A/N: Okay. I'm only going to say this once. In a lot of the comments for the last few chapters, I've got a lot of 'WHERE'S TOM? I WANT HIM TO HAVE REVENGE', but that's not going to happen. It's not about Tom's revenge or Tom exacting retribution because THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN TO HIM. This happened to Harry, and it's up to Harry what happens, how it happens, and why it happens. This isn't about Tom at all. Whatever he does or does not do if/when he finds out does not matter as much as what HARRY does.
> 
> This is not about Tom. That's all I'm going to say on this matter. I will address it further in the future. Thank you.


	67. TUESDAY, 2:07AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is fine. He's fine. He's FINE.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "And now  
I've been tryna break it down to build it up  
I've been tryna tell myself I'm good enough  
So, tell me it's over, say I'm sober  
And I'm done  
Done with staying out all night until the dawn  
Saying I'm alright to cover up the storm  
So, tell me it's over, say I'm sober"
> 
> -Say I'm Sober, Billy Lockett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings.

Harry is fine.

Harry is completely fine. He tells him this as his teeth chatters and he clenches them tight, because no one can hear. He doesn’t want anyone hearing him, particularly the portraits. He hears the soft snores of the portraits in the Portrait Corridor, and he moves slowly, his footsteps muted, his body wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak.

He stares through the thin cloth as he approaches the Potions Storeroom.

Harry is fine. He thinks this again and again.

His nightmares are not real. He has not had to Silence his bed-curtains in years now. He shouldn’t have to do that now because of _ one _ fucking _ man— _

Harry pauses in front of the Potions Storeroom.

He is fine.

He just needs a Calming Draught. That’s all.

_ Alohomora_, he casts, silently, because he refuses to be caught for an Un-Locking Charm. He holds his breath for a moment, wondering if it’ll work, and he lets out a sigh when the door creaks open. He steps inside the Potions Storeroom, a room that smells like dust and rotten rat spleen. Harry looks around, gazing going upward. There’s a ladder.

One side is made up of ingredients. The other side is full of finished Potions. Harry goes to that side and grabs the ladder. He wraps the cloak around him, securing it to let his arms free, and then, he begins the climb because he’s fine, even though he aches, and he doesn’t want to feel _ anything _at all.

He catches sight of Shrinking Solution, Polyjuice Potion, Forgetfulness Potion, and then, he’s up there, on the row labelled, ‘C-E’. He stares.

Calming Draught.

That hasn’t done enough.

He needs something stronger.

Harry grabs the three vials of Draught of Peace and stuffs them into his bag. He lets out a sigh of relief because that will last for a while. He grabs another Calming Draught just in case—he needs it, just in case, because what if he goes through the Draught of Peace too fast? What if he finishes it, and he has nothing, and he feels too much_ and everything— _

And then, he sees it.

Harry’s breath catches.

He rocks on the ladder, feels it creak under his weight as he stares.

There are several strains of the Euphoria Elixir. Harry was most partial to the GABA and Serotonin ones. And here they are. All of the strains, and right there, is his. Harry has not felt euphoria in a long, _ long _time now. He is—was—a year and a half sober.

He used to taste euphoria on Tom’s tongue.

He could taste euphoria on his now.

_ (Don’t take— _)

Harry grabs them both and slides them into his bag. He will be careful with those. He won’t overdo it on those. That was his problem last time, he thinks.

He overused. He overdosed.

Harry is better now. He has self-control, and he knows not to overdo it. The last time, he took his Dissociative Diminishing Tincture _and _the Draught of Peace _and _his Serotonin Euphoria Elixir. He knows now that he can only take one at a time. He’ll only need one at a time to feel numb.

And _ Merlin_, he wants to be numb.

Harry slowly climbs down from the ladder, tugging his Invisibility Cloak back over his face as he moves. He hears the vials clink against one another, and he has just enough time to slip out of the Storeroom and shut the door when he hears someone sweeping down the hallway.

Harry looks up and is immediately blinded by a light as Severus Snape swoops down the hallways, dressing gown billowing behind him like an overgrown bat or a cliched vampire. Harry flinches violently because Merlin, he’s stupid.

_ (How could he think that there weren’t going to be _ wards? _ ) _

“Reveal yourself or you will face _ dire _consequences,” Snape barks, holding out his lit wand, searching the space for the culprit.

Harry holds his breath and freezes against the wall. Around him, he hears the portraits begin to stir. Snape is unworried about waking up them up. He searches, eyes glaring as he moves into the Potions Storeroom. He yanks the door open and then pauses when he finds it unlocked. Harry presses up tighter against the wall, breathing as shallowly as he can, terrified to move.

Snape is close enough that Harry can see the whites of his eyes.

“You!” he barks at the portrait above Harry’s head.

Harry tries to turn his head but he knows he’ll reveal himself with how close Snape is.

“W-what?” the portrait yawns, a male voice.

“Was anyone just here? Who came down this corridor?” Snape demands.

Another voice, across the corridor, grumbles, “How would we know? Do you know how _ late _it is?”

“Was I _ speaking _to you?” Snape spits. “I just received notification that someone has been in my stores. Has anyone been down this corridor in the last ten minutes?”

The portraits all mumble to each other, some of them going back to sleep, ignoring Snape and others offering possible suspects that range from sprites to the great vampire, Vlad the Impaler.

And then.

And _ then. _

Someone else wanders into the corridor.

“Professor?”

Harry’s heart cracks in half as he recognizes the voice. He doesn’t turn, his eyes already stinging, because he’s no longer numb, and he feels too much, and he wants to _weep. _

“Mr. Riddle, were you just in my Storeroom?” Snape demands, a touch too aggressive. “Why are you up at this late hour?”

“I’m the Head Boy, Professor. I always do a quick sweep of the castle before I sleep,” Tom says, his voice flat.

Through the Invisibility Cloak, Harry can just make out Tom’s expression. He looks unimpressed by Snape. Harry knows that Tom has never liked him very much; Dumbledore lets him get away with far more than Snape ever would.

“It’s two in the morning,” Snape sneers.

“I have insomnia,” Tom retorts just as quickly. “Are you well, Professor?”

He asks it like he’s questioning Snape’s sanity. Harry watches Snape’s expression turn puce.

Snape lifts his chin and then he shakes his head. “Go to _ bed _, Mr. Riddle,” he snaps, and then he savagely locks the door with his wand and storms back the way he came, without any thought to his further investigation or an apology to the portraits that he’d just woken up.

Tom lingers in the corridor. He turns to one of the other portraits. Very politely, he asks, “I’m so sorry that your sleep has been disturbed, but may I trouble you for a moment?”

The portrait laughs girlishly. “Ah, yes,” she says sweetly. It’s a milkmaid of sorts. “What is it, dear?”

“Could you tell me what that was about, exactly?” Tom asks.

Harry closes his eyes and prays that Tom might just fucking _leave_.

“That overgrown bat said that someone snuck into his Storeroom, but the door was closed as far as I saw. We didn’t hear anything, and I’m quite a light sleeper, I’ll have you know,” another gruffer voice supplies before the milkmaid can speak.

Tom nods, his brow furrowing. “Ah, I see, well then—_ Somnium_.”

And all of the portraits are plunged into a deep sleep. Harry is terrified, pressing tighter against the wall. Tom steps forward, once, then, another, until he’s right in front of Harry. Harry can feel the heat radiating off him and he turns his head as Tom’s fingers brush against the edge of the Invisibility Cloak.

Tom pulls it away, leaving Harry without his Cloak, rendering him visible again.

“Harry,” Tom whispers.

“Tom,” Harry says softly, refusing to look at him.

“Did you sneak into the Storeroom?” Tom asks. He reaches up, like he means to touch Harry’s cheek.

And Harry _ flinches. _

Tom’s fingers linger in the air.

Harry has never really flinched from him. He feels terrible for doing it. He looks at Tom, but Tom is staring at him, squinting like he’s trying to figure something out.

“What happened?” Tom asks, his voice hard. “Something happened.”

Harry shakes his head. “Nothing happened,” he says, and it’s harder to lie when he’s not numb. It comes out reedy and false and nervous.

“You’re not a very good liar,” Tom says coldly. “Did you sneak into the Storeroom?”

Harry doesn’t answer.

“Why?” His voice sounds hard, like he’s suddenly remembered that he’s upset that Harry wanted ‘space’.

Harry shakes his head, closing his eyes. He wishes that he’d never asked for that. That he’d never asked for ‘space’.

Then, gently, so kindly that he Harry doesn’t deserve it, Tom asks, “Harry...are you high right now?”

Harry flinches hard and slides down the wall away from Tom. He holds his bag carefully so that the vials don’t clink. He points his wand at the bag, Silences it. Tom lifts his wand and waves it, trying to Summon the bag to him. Harry grabs it hard, glaring at Tom.

“Harry, are you—”

Harry doesn’t speak a word. He shakes his head once.

Then, Harry runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Relapse, Drug Abuse


	68. TUESDAY, 2:32PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is chivalrous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings

“Picking us up from _ class_? How _ chivalrous_,” Ginny drawls as Harry walks across the grounds, his lips curling into a smile as he approaches Ginny and Luna as their Care for Magical Creatures finally lets out.

Harry lifts a hand in greeting towards Hagrid, but he doesn’t stop and chat.

“I’m bored and want to go to the Room of Requirement,” Harry says. He speaks slower when he’s on the Draught of Peace, more deliberately.

He had thought he could make it through the day on a morning sip before breakfast, but that dream had been shattered swiftly after Potions.

All through the morning lesson, Snape had glared at Harry, his beady black eyes trained on Harry’s face as Harry went through the motions. He’d partnered with Lavender because she didn’t know the signs like Hermione did, and Harry had done his very best not to look Snape in the eye even if Snape swooped by like an overgrown bat at least six times.

And then, at the very end of the lesson, Snape had snarled, _ You look tired, Potter. Roaming about the castle last night? _

And Harry had very deliberately said, _ No, sir, I wasn’t. _

Snape had pushed again, and Harry had been steady, never making eye contact, until finally Lavender squeaked about a class that they didn’t have and she’d ushered Harry out of the room. Harry had explained it away as Snape just hating him, and they had taken the lie quite well. But, it had been enough to make Harry nervous.

Now, he’s on his second sip of Draught of Peace for the day, and he’s at the plane of it, not high enough that there’s no feeling, no inflection, but enough that he has to be very careful with each of his words.

“I can’t,” Luna says sweetly. Ginny frowns over at her. “I’m going to take samples of this strange dung that Hagrid found by the thestrals paddock. He says that it isn’t thestral dung, and there’s a creature called the Jabberwock that’s attracted to Death-adjacent creatures! I want to see if it’s a Jabberwock!” [1]

Ginny’s frown deepens, even as her lips twitch with amusement. “Dung is dung is dung, am I right?” she whispers to Harry.

Harry snorts. “Ah, that sounds great, Luna.”

“Doesn’t it?” Luna asks, excitedly. “I’m going to get my gear and rush a letter to my father to expect some samples to be tested!”

Harry nods and the trio walk back to the castle, splintering off when they get to the fifth floor and Luna needs to continue up to the North Tower. Harry and Ginny veer right, going up still, more and more, towards their goal of the eighth floor.

“No, but really, why did you come to pick us up from class?” Ginny asks, brushing against Harry’s side. She smiles up at him. “Quidditch practices start up again soon. You want to go over plays?”

“Can’t I just spend time with one of my best friends?” Harry says, forcing a smile on his face.

_ (She doesn’t know about anything. She doesn’t know about the addiction, the Dursleys, Krum. She’s safe.) _

“I guess,” Ginny says skeptically, but she doesn’t push. “I feel like everyone else has gotten the story about you and Riddle except me, which, really Harry, isn’t fair, seeing as _ I _was there from the beginning.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Remember! We were out on the lawn, by the lake, singing—”

Harry _ remembers_. He flushes. “Don’t say it!”

Ginny grins. “_ ‘A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Loooove’ _ . And then, he stopped by and asked you out and you rejected him. And then, I saw him at the Samhain party too. I can’t believe you told _ everyone _but me,” Ginny sighs, shaking her head.

“Well, it’s not like I wanted anyone to _ know_,” Harry mutters under his breath.

“Why not?”

“You know how Riddle is with his significant others,” Harry reminds her.

Ginny shrugs. “Yeah, but he’s not like that anymore. Because of _ you_. He’s still an arse, but I think you might be the only one to tame him. Not even Bellatrix can lay a claim to that, can she?”

Harry doesn’t really think Tom is a beast to be tamed, but he doesn’t have a chance to say so.

He doesn’t have a chance to say anything.

He hears them first, Slavic languages layered one upon the other, conversations mostly dominated by Russian. Harry can’t pick them apart, the voices, but he hears one more distinctly than the others, and suddenly—

_ (he’sscreamingagain.) _

The group of students turns the corner and Harry flinches as he counts the Durmstrang students. They don’t stop moving, too caught up in one another. None of them notice Harry and Ginny at the end of the long corridor.

At the center of the group—always at the center—Krum smiles.

_ (HE’SSCREAMING—) _

Harry jerks into action, grabbing Ginny, and then, he’s swinging them towards the nearest door. Instead of a classroom, he finds them in a broom closet, cluttered by old unenchanted brooms and wooden buckets, rotting from age. He shoves himself up against the door, his back aching, and suddenly, _ suddenly, _he can feel far too much.

_ (Going down, down, down, and he’s—) _

“—you okay, Harry?” Ginny is asking, and he can’t quite hear her.

He hears her from the end of a long tunnel and his blood is moving too fast, he’s terrified. He’s falling to pieces, shaking, because there he was, at the end of the corridor, and he was so close, too close, and Harry is _ falling_.

And then, Ginny’s arms wrap around him, holding him together and he collapses into her, a cracking sound wrenching its way from his throat.

He swallows it all back, holds her tighter and she grabs him, her slim arms deceptively strong.

“I’ve got you, Harry. You’re okay,” she says firmly, not even asking him why she needs to have him in the first place.

He holds her until he doesn’t need to anymore and he feels exhausted and too much. There’s so much that he’s feeling that he doesn’t want to, that he can’t, that he can’t _ process_, and he grabs his bag, rattling it around.

“Harry?” Ginny asks again.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he stammers, awkwardly. “I just need—”

And then, he finds it, the Draught of Peace.

He told himself that he’d be good. That he’d only take it when he needed it.

It will be the third time today.

And _ Merlin_, he needs it.

He struggles with the stopper, taking it off almost violently and then he drowns in it, swallows until it’s half-done and he feels almost nothing again. The name ‘Draught of Peace’ isn’t quite right, because Harry has _ never _known peace.

He only knows numb.

Ginny stares at him, wide-eyed. “What—”

“Madame Pomfrey,” Harry says softly, interrupting her before she can ask. He tilts his head as he regards her, his lips curling into a dazed smile. “It’s for the nerves.”

“You have nerves?” Ginny asks, doubtfully.

“From time to time,” Harry says. “Do me a favor?”

“Will you explain what just happened?” Ginny retorts.

“Probably not,” Harry sighs. “Don’t mention this Hermione and Ron. They’ll get overbearing. Now, let’s go to the Room of Requirement.”

He ignores her worry, her tension, as he opens the door.

He looks both ways.

The Durmstrang students are gone.

It wouldn’t matter if they weren’t, Harry thinks.

He wouldn’t feel a thing anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Drug Abuse
> 
> ~*~
> 
> [1] Reference to Lewis Carroll's _Jabberwocky_


	69. THURSDAY, 12:03PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Fleur finally speak.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "But darling when you smile it's like the rain dries out  
Now there's no more room for clouds  
Got me singing Hallelu, oh Hallelu oh  
When you hold my hand it just reminds me how  
There's still cool people in the world"
> 
> -Cool People, Chloe x Halle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings

Harry is on his way to lunch—where he will eat just a little because it will make Ron and Hermione feel better, where he will ignore Viktor Krum’s presence because he is ignoring everything, where he will smile and laugh and nod and pretend that he does not feel numb from the Draught of Peace—when he hears her call his name.

“ ‘Arry! ‘Arry Potter!”

Others pause around him on their mass commute to lunch. A few boys shoot Harry envious stares as they glance behind at the tall, statuesque woman. Harry turns too and stares at Fleur Delacour. She’s standing on the main stairs, dressed in the powder blue robes of Beauxbatons. She holds up a hand and smiles gently at him.

Harry feels his heart start to beat faster and harder. He swallows hard as he tries to gain a hold on himself, but already the numbness that the Draught of Peace provides is starting to fade. His blood pumps faster, forcing the potion through him, wearing down on its effectiveness.

“‘Arry,” Fleur calls again and then she jumps down from the stairs. Even that looks graceful. She sweeps over to him and smiles at him. Softer now, mindful, she asks, “‘Ow are you?”

Harry flinches. Fleur’s smile falters. She exchanges it for alarm.

“Not here,” Harry says firmly.

Fleur nods, looking far more serious than she had only moments ago.

“Harry?” another voice calls.

Harry glances back and sees Lavender in the doorway to the Great Hall. She looks between Fleur and Harry curiously. Harry waves at her, struggling to smile at her. Lavender’s stare grows even harder; there must be something wrong with the smile, _ Fuck. _ Harry spins away from her and looks up at Fleur.

“Let’s go outside,” she declares.

Harry nods. “I know a place we can go,” he says firmly. He wraps his cloak around his shoulders and starts to lead the way, walking with his head held high. He doesn’t glance back at Lavender, only choosing to look up at Fleur.

Fleur is watching him carefully like she’s afraid he’ll shatter.

He is made of stronger stuff than that, he thinks. He will not shatter. Just break a little. Break just enough and then he will put himself back together and he will be _ numb_.

They’re outside, on their way to the paddock, when he chooses to speak. “I am not okay,” he says.

This is the first time that he has said that out loud.

Fleur’s face crumples. “Oh...oh _ mon Dieu_,” she whispers. “ ‘Arry—”

“I am not okay. Or rather I don’t know, because I don’t quite remember what happened,” Harry says quietly. They walk along the edge of the lake, past the Durmstrang ship. Harry can’t look at it. He keeps his gaze forward.

“Not at all?” Fleur asks.

“I was drunk. And...I think I repressed my memories. I do that. With trauma. Repress trauma,” he says, attempting to make himself more clear and then only muddling himself further. Even still, Fleur nods like she understands completely.

“Ah,” she begins, then stops. “What _ do _you remember?”

“I remember...going to Hogsmeade. Meeting you and...Krum. Then, going to the ship. Doing the shots. Talking with Katarina. And then, I ended up in the hallway. I don’t know...he just...came onto me, and I said ‘no’ and then he Silenced me, and then...Karkaroff—” Harry breaks off, shaking his head.

By the time Harry gets it all out, they’re walking past Hagrid’s hut, heading towards the Forbidden Forest. Fleur doesn’t look even a little afraid. They approach the thestrals’ paddock and as they reach the fence, Philip gallops up to Harry. She brushes her face against his jaw and Harry smiles weakly.

Fleur’s gaze hardens. “Karkaroff saw?” she demands.

“Yes. He...I asked for ‘help’ and he didn’t. Help,” Harry finishes lamely.

Fleur’s glare blazes and she shakes her head. She spits in violent French, snarling to herself, before she looks up at him. “You will report ‘im?” she demands.

“No,” Harry says shortly. Fleur looks outraged for a moment before she stops and nods, like she understands completely. Harry looks around. “This is the thestral paddock. Do you know what a thestral is?”

“Non,” Fleur says.

“They’re...beasts. Creatures. Horse-like. They have wings. You can only see them if you’ve seen someone die,” Harry says.

Fleur pauses. “And you ‘ave?”

“My parents, when I was a kid,” Harry says. He knows a lot of people might still think of him as a kid now, but he hasn’t felt like one in a very long time. “What...did he…”

“‘E didn’t get farther than trying to take your clothes off,” Fleur says firmly. “I was looking for you. You disappeared, and I didn’t like...I didn’t like ‘ow ‘e was looking at you. Speaking to you. I found you in the ‘allway. And I cursed ‘im before ‘e could do any-zing more.”

Harry lets out a breath, trembling, because he believes her. He doesn’t think Fleur would lie about something like this, and there is a relief in knowing, that while he’d been touched and bruised and _ hurt, _he hadn’t been—

Harry pauses. “C-curse? You have a Dark Arts license?”

Fleur smiles humorlessly. “No. But, my maman taught me young ‘ow to fight. I ‘ave ‘ad to defend myself too. People think zat zey are welcome to my body. Zat because I am part-Veela that I don’t _ feel_. They think because I am a woman, I am _ weak_,” Fleur says firmly. She sounds colder and colder with each passing word, and Merlin, Harry admires her strength. “I will fight _ anyone _that thinks that they can ‘urt people. I don’t need a license to do that.”

Harry’s lips tilt into a slow smile and he nods, staring down at the ground. Fleur raises a hand, so obvious and careful, and she lets it fall on Harry’s shoulder. Harry looks up at her wide-eyed.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Fleur shakes her head. “Do not thank me for doing what is right,” she whispers firmly.

“But, if I’d—”

“This is not your fault, ‘Arry Potter.”

Harry is stricken.

_ This is not your fault_.

Fleur continues, “This is not about you tempting ‘im or getting too drunk. Neither iz what causes sexual assault. It iz about power. ‘E wanted to make you afraid. ‘E wanted to be in power. But, _ you _ are the powerful one. _ You _are a survivor. He iz weak in ze face of one like you, ‘Arry.”

Harry swallows and nods slowly, even if he doesn’t quite believe it. He stares up at her, and Fleur smiles down at him. Harry shakes his head.

“Did...something like this happen to you?” Harry asks.

Fleur nods once. “Yes,” she says, shortly, and Harry thinks that for her, there was no one to find her in a hallway. But, she doesn’t sound sad. She sounds powerful. She leans back against the fence, staring out into the world. “Zis is why I know zat you are powerful. _ We _are powerful. You feel weak now. You will not forever.”

Harry nods, because he feels weak, and he feels like he needs another Calming Draught, another Draught of Peace, _ Euphoria— _but he thinks he might not feel this way forever. But, now he burns for it, and he doesn’t think it’s weak. It’s okay to be weak. He’s so confused.

He just knows that right now, he feels almost okay.

Almost.

“Now, may I ‘ug you?” Fleur asks.

Harry smiles. “You may.”

When she hugs him, it feels almost safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Reference/discussion of sexual assault


	70. THURSDAY, 6:21PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is caught.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I had a dream  
I got everything I wanted  
But when I wake up, I see  
You with me
> 
> And you say, 'As long as I'm here, no one can hurt you  
Don't wanna lie here, but you can learn to  
If I could change the way that you see yourself  
You wouldn't wonder why you're here, they don't deserve you' "
> 
> -everything i wanted, Billie Eilish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings

Harry checks the lock on the boys’ dorm for the third time before he finally moves to his bed. He kneels in front of his trunk and opens it. At the very bottom are his torn jeans, his shirt, his underwear and the locket. On the top, just underneath robes that are a size too small, are his Potions. He knows that the best way to hide potions he shouldn’t have is to not hide it.

He used to hide them, back in his fourth year. Hermione and Ron weren’t stupid. After they found it out, the first time, they'd searched and found all of his hiding spots. If they discovered his returned _habit_, they wouldn’t think to just _ look _in his trunk. They'd think he was trying to be much smarter than he was about it all.

_(_Maybe, _he doesn't think, _maybe you _want _them to find it all, because you can't stop).

Harry swallows hard, fingers brushing over the Euphoria Elixir. He feels too much, Fleur’s words swirling in his head, her insistence that_—you are a survivor, you are powerful_—he’ll be okay, but he doesn’t feel okay. He will be okay.

He will be fine.

He will be numb.

Harry grabs the Draught of Peace and shuts his trunk, sitting on top of it. He leans back against his bed and downs the whole thing just as the door slams open.

Harry jumps, choking on the potion. He swallows hard, forcing all of it down.

He looks at the doorway, horrified.

Hermione and Ron stare back, just as horrified as he.

“What did you take? What was that?” Hermione whispers like she’s afraid to ask.

Harry scrambles back on his bed and doesn’t speak. Ron takes a step forward.

“Harry, what did you just _ drink_?” Ron demands.

Harry shakes his head again.

“_Wallah, _ Harry Potter, _ madha_—” Hermione snarls in Arabic and then she whips out her wand, Summoning the bottle to her hand. Harry cries out as he reaches for it, but Ron catches it like he’s a Seeker.

Hermione snatches it from Ron’s hand and smells it. She looks up, her eyes so wide that Harry can see the whites of them from even across the room.

“Hermione?” Ron asks nervously.

“It’s the Draught of Peace,” Hermione says, her voice cracking. All of her anger drains out of her and then, her face crumples. “Oh, _ Harry_.”

Harry stares at her, too numb to cry, too numb to feel anything.

He feels like he’s floating, outside of his body. He feels nothing, and he feels everything like it’s not his, like it doesn’t belong to him.

“Mate, what happened?” Ron asks as he creeps forward, leaving Hermione in the doorway still. Ron crawls up onto the edge of the bed, far enough from Harry that he doesn’t startle him. “When did this start again?”

“Do you...do you ever feel filthy?” Harry asks, and he wants to scream—_(nooneheardhimscream)_—but he doesn’t feel much of anything. It would take too much to scream, just now.

“What?” Hermione asks, almost voiceless. She shuts the door behind her, falls back against it like it’s the only thing keeping her up.

“Sometimes, I feel filthy,” Harry says softly, looking up at the ceiling. “I feel filthy right now. Dirty little drug addict. Dirty little orphan. Dirty little whore.”

He sings the words, almost, like he used to sing when he was high on euphoria. That was always a side effect. That was how they always knew if he’d almost taken too much. He knows that was part of how they figured it all out. Harry had been high and vomiting and _ singing_.

“Why...why would you say those things about yourself?” Ron asks, sounding terrified to ask. “Did someone call you that?”

“No,” Harry sighs, his head lolling back against the headboard. He stares at Ron. People think that your vision gets hazy when you’re high. Harry’s vision grows sharp, sharper even, like he could see Ron crystal clear even without his glasses.

“Harry, where did you get the Draught of Peace?” Hermione asks. She sounds exhausted.

“The Potions Storeroom. Snape should consider a spell a little stronger than _ Colloportus_,” Harry says coolly. He stares past Hermione and looks down at the doorknob. Hermione jumps and moves to lock the door herself. “What gave it away this time?”

Ron startles. “Ah...you haven’t...really been yourself, mate. We’ve barely seen you. You were sleeping a lot. Ginny said you threw the two of you into a broom closet once and she saw you take something. You went off with Fleur Delacour, and...yeah, you just weren’t yourself,” Ron finishes lamely.

Harry hums. He sighs to himself.

“Harry—” Hermione begins again.

“I got drunk last Friday. With Fleur Delacour and the Durmstrang kids. I was too drunk. I ended up in a hallway. Viktor Krum was in that same hallway. He doesn’t really know the word ‘no’. Not a part of his vocabulary, I suppose,” Harry says, looking away.

Even through the numbness, he feels a dull ache, when he puts it into words.

He rolls up his sleeves and reveals his wrists. Ron chokes on his breath as he sees the yellowing bruises. Even with the Bruise Removal Paste, they were still only yellow. Krum had bruised him bone-deep, Harry supposes.

“There are more. In other places,” Harry says vaguely. He glances at Hermione. She looks like she’s about to cry. He doesn’t want her to cry. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying,” Ron says gently.

Harry flinches.

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not—”

“Not about Krum. I will always believe you, Harry. But, it’s okay that you’re not fine,” Ron whispers. “You’re not fine. You’re high.”

Harry frowns. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

Hermione is shaking. She takes another step forward. “Once more. With feeling,” she whispers.

“I’m—”

Harry can’t finish it. He shakes against the headboard and suddenly, his cheeks feel wet. He touches his cheeks, comes away with salt water. “Oh,” he says flatly. “I’m crying.”

Hermione bursts into tears and then she throws herself at Harry. She wraps her arms around him, holding him tight to her chest. And into his ear, she chants. “This is _not _your fault, Harry Potter. None of this is your fault. This is _ not _your fault.”

Harry shakes, tears rolling down his face, and he doesn’t _ feel _sad. He doesn’t think he feels sad. He feels nothing, really, at least, his brain tells him, he doesn’t. He thinks maybe that he’s so sad that he can’t fathom it, his brain can’t understand it at all. It’s the kind of sad that waits in your muscle, that leaves them sore.

“I can’t seem to eat,” Harry says softly. “I never want to eat.”

His voice sounds distorted. He’s choking on his tears, on his breaths, on his snot, but there’s no inflection, nothing. He is so _ numb_.

“Oh, Harry,” Ron whispers, laying down, his head on Hermione’s knee as he stares up at Harry. He grabs Harry’s hand, holds it tight as they all cry.

It is not pretty.

It is deep and ugly, and so very what Harry does _ not _feel.

_ Deep and ugly. _

“We need to tell someone. You need to tell someone,” Hermione says when she gathers her wits, after she’s swallowed some of her tears back. She is trying to fix this. Hermione is forever trying to _ fix _ things. Harry doesn’t want to be _ fixed_. “What about Miriam—”

“She’s away. Conference,” Harry says, because the last time he went for more Bruise Removal Paste, Madame Pomfrey had said that she asked after Miriam and that was what she was told.

“What about Remus? Sirius? They have to know about the potions, at _ least_—” Hermione starts.

“Hermione,” Ron barks, hard enough to make Hermione jump. “Not right now.”

Hermione shifts once. “But—”

“Not right now.”

Hermione sinks back, holding Harry tighter. “Alright,” she whispers, and she sounds scared. “But...just for tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Drug Abuse
> 
> ~*~
> 
> A/N: Well, Harry's been caught. Now, while I can't promise it's all uphill from here, we WILL see Harry get the support that he so desperately needs. Remember, a lot of Harry's problems stem from the fact that he needs control, which he didn't have in childhood. But, Harry will get better! He will find his control!


	71. FRIDAY, 7:04PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry goes to Sirius and Remus.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I'm flyin' to the moon again, dreamin' about heroin  
How it gave you everything and took your life away  
I put you on an aeroplane, destined for a foreign land  
I hoped that you'd come back again  
And tell me everything's okay, ay, babe, yeah"
> 
> Heroin, Lana Del Rey

Harry did not let Hermione and Ron walk him to Remus’ rooms.

That does not mean they listened. They walked on either side of him, proud and fierce, like he needed defending. Harry thought he’d shatter if it weren’t for them.

He is not high right now.

That does not mean he doesn’t have the last Draught of Peace in his bag. Just in case.

Harry sits on the couch, legs folded underneath him as Sirius bounces up and down, excited. Harry is not excited.

Tomorrow is the final. Hogwarts v. Durmstrang.

Harry knows that he’s in the doubles match with Tom. He knows that that’s probably gotten out. He can imagine who they’ll be up again.

Katarina. Krum.

“I can’t believe you’re, like, the_ trump _card,” Sirius says with a grin. “You must be really good. And you and Riddle will do fine together, even though you aren’t...together anymore?”

“I don’t know if we were ever together, really,” Harry says, staring off at something that he can’t quite see. Even he can hear the un-truth in that. He and Tom were together, even if they’re now trapped in some strange limbo of Harry’s design. “I think it’ll be fine.”

“That’s good to hear,” Sirius says firmly. “And I think you’ll work it out, whatever’s going on between the two of you. You two started off rocky, but maybe, now that you’ve spent time apart you can—”

“Krum hurt me.”

There’s a silence that lingers there. Sirius’ smile slowly falls away. Remus looks up from the dinner that he’s plating. They’re both staring at him, as if they can’t quite understand what he’s just said, like he’s speaking Mermish.

“What?” Remus whispers.

Harry pauses. “That wasn’t what I meant to say,” he admits. He was going to tell them about the potions.

Somehow, this seems easier.

“What?” Sirius asks, sounding more alert. He sits up.

And it’s the way they’re staring at him. They’re staring at Harry like he’s just killed them, like he’s just shattered them, and he doesn’t understand why _ they’re looking at him like that. _ Fleur had looked at him like. Hermione and Ron look at him like that. They look at him like he’d _ murdered _them, when it isn’t his fault.

It isn’t _ his _fault that Krum had done this.

It isn’t _ his _ fault that Krum has put his _ damn hands _ on him.

It isn’t—

“It’s not my fault!”

Remus stares at him, trembling, as he looks Harry up and down. Harry’s vision is blurred, like he’s not wearing his glasses, until he realizes that he is; he’s just crying.

“What...what’s not your fault?” Remus whispers.

He doesn’t understand. Harry looks at Sirius, and the way Sirius is staring at him, it’s like he _ knows_. He knows when Remus doesn’t. Sirius is ashen, so pale that he looks like he’s received the Dementor’s Kiss. He takes a stumbling step towards Harry and slowly raises his hands, like he’s not sure if he should touch Harry.

_(Later Harry will wonder how Sirius knew what to do, what to say. Later Harry will be too afraid to ask.) _

“It’s not my fault,” Harry repeats, his voice cracking.

“No, it’s not. It’s _ never _ your fault,” Sirius whispers back. His hands flutter, and still he doesn’t grab Harry to pull him close. He doesn’t touch him, and Harry scratches at his arms because maybe he’s too dirty to touch, maybe there’s something _ wrong _ . “It’s not your fault, Harry. Sweetheart...Bambi, please...it’s not your _ fault _.”

“It’s not my _ fault _.”

Sirius has tears in his eyes and he sniffs them away, shaking his head. “Can I...can I hold you, Bambi?”

And Harry launches himself into Sirius’ arms and weeps.

Sirius’ arms come around him, holding him tight, and Harry feels _ safe_. Harry feels like Sirius is holding him together, and finally, he breaks apart. He clings to his godfather and soaks his collar in tears, shaking as he cries and then Remus is on the couch next to them, a hand on Harry’s shoulder, holding him to the Earth, just like that.

Harry shakes and cries, and exorcises the hurt and the pain and suddenly, he doesn’t want to be numb. He wants to be _ whole_.

“Sirius, I didn’t...he _ hurt _me,” Harry confesses into his neck.

“I know, Harry,” Sirius whispers. “I know.”


	72. FRIDAY, 8:38 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry makes a decision.

When Harry comes to, his face is tight with old tears.

He’s laying in Sirius and Remus’ bed, in the middle of the sheets, a blanket tugged over him. Harry sits up and reaches for his glasses and his wand. He waves his wand, and sees that only an hour or two has passed since he’d cried himself to sleep. He doesn’t feel as hollow anymore. He’s just tired.

And hungry.

He’s _ so _hungry.

And he feels that craving again. His tongue burns.

Harry looks for his bag.

It’s outside. He can get it, quietly. Slowly.

Harry slips out of the bed and moves towards the door. He listens and then flinches when he realizes that they’re _ arguing_. He presses up against the door and wishes that he knew a spell to make them louder as he tries his best to eavesdrop.

“_—don’t know, Remus. Press fucking charges?” _comes Sirius’ voice.

Harry freezes.

“_That’s not our place, Sirius. Harry’s nearly an adult_,” Remus says. He sounds much calmer than Sirius, but Harry can hear the thread of tension between his ears, a tension that’s only ever really present around the full moon.

Harry hates that he made Remus sound like that.

“_But, not yet. He’s underage. Fuck, Remus. What the fuck are we supposed to do?_” Sirius snarls. And then, he lets out a loud sigh. He sounds like he’s moving, pacing. “_Should we pull Harry out of the competition?_”

“_Why? He’s the co-captain_,” Remus says.

“_Do you fucking hear yourself? ‘He’s the co-captain’,_” Sirius mocks viciously. Harry knows that Sirius can get vicious when he’s upset. He’s never sounded like that with Harry. “_Who the fuck cares? Tomorrow is Durmstrang versus Hogwarts. He’s one of the best, he’s guaranteed to duel, and probably with Riddle. Krum has only been in doubles matches._”

Remus pauses for a moment. “_Harry is almost an adult_—”

“He is our son!”

Sirius’ snarl echoes and Harry feels a pang of hurt in his chest, next to his heart. There is a silence as Harry waits for Remus’ response.

And softly, ever so softly, Remus whispers, _ “Sirius, I know_.”

Harry swallows hard and moves to open the door, when another voice enters the fray, “_I won’t be back until Wednesday evening at the earliest. I have a patient that is a suicide-risk right now, and I can’t leave him without putting him at further risk_. _ Should we have a Floo session? _”

Miriam. Fucking _ Miriam_.

“_I’m not sure that would be enough,” _ Remus sighs. “_We don’t even know what happened_.”

And with that, Harry wrenches the door open.

Remus and Sirius are kneeling towards the green fireplace, peering at the face there. They spin almost as one to face Harry. Harry stares at them, wide-eyed and quiet.

“Harry. You’re awake,” Sirius says lamely.

“He didn’t rape me. He assaulted me,” Harry says. “He pinned my wrists to the wall, he took my wand, he touched me and undid my pants. He choked me with Tom’s locket. Fleur Delacour intervened before he did anything else.”

Remus is ashen, and his eyes look far too amber. He takes a step forward, but then, he stops. Harry moves quickly and goes to kneel in front of the fire, ignoring Remus and Sirius both. He looks down into the fire. Miriam stares up at him with the kindest eyes that Harry has ever seen.

“Hello, Miriam,” Harry whispers.

“_Hello, Harry_,” she says. “_I wish I was there._”

“I do too,” Harry admits. He swallows. “_ Accio _my bag.”

He feels his bag zoom towards him and he catches it. He can sense Sirius’ trepidation as Harry flips open his bag and pulls out the Draught of Peace. Remus lets out a choked sound. Harry can hear Sirius crying behind him. He doesn’t look at them. He stares at Miriam as he holds it up to her face in the Floo. Miriam does not choke or cry.

She nods like she understands.

Like she expected it.

“_What did you take?_” she asks, gently.

“I’ve been taking Calming Draught and Draught of Peace for the past few days. This is my last bottle. Out of three,” Harry says.

“_That’s a lot of Draught of Peace_,” Miriam says.

“I’ve built up a tolerance. You know that,” Harry says. He leans back on his haunches and looks up at Sirius. With all of his strength, he pushes the potion bottle into Sirius’ hand. “Please...take this.”

_ (He does not mention the Euphoria Elixir in his trunk upstairs. Just one more—) _

He turns back to Miriam and stares down at her. He doesn’t want to put a name to what he’s done. He thinks if he does, he might name the shame that he tastes on the back of his tongue. Instead, Harry just looks at Miriam.

“I don’t want to press charges. I don’t want to report him,” Harry says.

“_Oka—_”

“What do you mean you don’t want to press charges?” Sirius blurts out. Harry pushes himself up to his feet and looks at his godfather. Sirius looks appalled. “You have to.”

“I don’t have to do _ anything _I don’t want to,” Harry says severely.

Sirius is colorless. “I...no, of course not,” he sputters.

“I think Sirius means that Krum should be brought to justice. He assaulted you, Harry,” Remus says gently, covering all of the bases and angles that Sirius can’t.

“I know,” Harry says flatly. “But, if I report him now, he’ll be forced to pull out of the duelling competition. And I’m _ not _losing this competition.”

Sirius shakes his head. “What do you mean? It’s just a _ competition_.”

Sirius doesn’t get it.

It’s more than that.

Harry has trained with his team. He has seen Ron’s confidence, Lavender’s growth, Luna’s tenacity, Ginny’s boldness. He has seen Hermione’s calculations. This is more than just a duelling competition.

_ (This is about Tom, _he doesn’t name.)

“This is about _ me_,” he says, and there’s a truth in that. There’s so much truth. “This is _ my _ decision. I’m going to do this my way. I’m going to _ win_. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to send and I need to get up early tomorrow. I have a duel to win.”

Sirius opens his mouth and closes it again. He nods, almost in shock. Harry glances down at Miriam. She has a wry smile to her mouth even as she looks at him.

“_Good luck, Harry. I’ll see you on Thursday,_” Miriam says. “_Will you be okay until then?” _

Harry nods. “I’m sorry that I took it. I won’t again,” he says.

Miriam sighs. “_Harry, that’s not an answer_.”

Harry thinks about the question. _ Will you be okay until then, _ she’s asking him. She’s asking if he can hold on.

He can do more than hold on.

“I’m going to be okay.”

For the first time, he thinks he believes himself.


	73. SATURDAY, 9:12AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry goes to breakfast.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "What the fuck, though? Where the love go?  
Five, four, three, two, I let one go  
Bow! Get the fuck though, I don't bluff, bro  
Aimin' at your head like a buffalo  
You a roughneck, I'm a cutthroat  
You're a tough guy, that's enough jokes  
Then the sun die, the night is young though  
The diamonds still shine in the rough, ho"
> 
> Uproar, Lil Wayne

Harry does not tell them where he’s going for breakfast.

He does not mention it when he washes his face, when he brushes his teeth, when he puts on his duelling uniform, when he puts on the Slytherin Locket, after searching for it at the bottom of his trunk. He fastens it around his neck, and he does not mention his plans.

He doesn’t mention anything at all as his friends close rank around him. They’re all dressed in their duelling blacks, ready to go.

Ginny, Luna, and Lavender don’t know to what extent things are wrong, but none of them are stupid. They all can sense something’s off. Ron looks ashen with his rage, Hermione hard-faced with it. They sweep down the stairs, the other students moving out of their way, whispering words of encouragement that none of them hear.

When they get to the Great Hall, they try to guide him to the Gryffindor table.

“I’m having breakfast with someone,” Harry says.

Hermione pauses. “Riddle?”

“No,” Harry says, looking straight ahead.

He lifts his chin and takes a step forward. Ron just has to look at him to know what he’s planning to do.

“Harry, no,” Ron says.

Harry glances up at the faculty table. His gaze catches on Remus’. Sirius is sitting next to him. The pair of them are glaring down at the center of the table. The Durmstrang students are there. There’s a space there, empty, right across from _ him _.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Lavender whispers.

“I’m going to have breakfast with someone,” Harry repeats.

And then, he walks, abandoning them behind him.

He stares straight ahead at the back of his shaved head. He is _ not _afraid.

Harry rounds the table, ignoring the eyes on him. He can feel the weight of Tom’s eyes, his friend’s eyes, his godparents’ eyes. Fleur is leaning forward in her seat, neck craning, her eyes wide as she watches Harry. But, he doesn’t care as he stands in front of Krum, lifting his chin.

_ (He is not numb, anymore. He doesn’t know what he is. All he knows, is that he _ ** _burns_**_.) _

“Good morning, Harry,” Viktor Krum says, looking up at Harry with flat eyes.

Harry doesn’t answer. Instead, he slides into his seat and folds his hands on top of the table, staring right into Krum’s eyes. Outside of the shadows of the Durmstrang ship, Viktor Krum is not as scary anymore. Viktor Krum is a boy. He is a boy with a misshapen nose, and a cruel mouth, and sloping shoulders.

He is a boy that Harry is going to _ crush _.

“I said—” Krum begins.

“I heard you,” Harry interrupts, voice flat. He slowly pulls his wand then spits, “_Muffliato_.”

Krum jerks back as he hears the low buzzing of the spell in his ears, everything else dampened. Harry sets his wand next to his plate and then begins to grab toast and sausage. He piles his plate high, because he is fucking _starving_, he hasn't eaten in so long. Harry pauses over one dish that he doesn’t recognize.

“What’s this?”

“Mekitsa,” Krum says, sounding almost dazed.

Harry grabs it and bites into the fried dough savagely. He swallows, and then, takes a swig of pumpkin juice. He never takes his eyes off of Krum, who looks more unnerved with each passing moment. Harry finishes half of his breakfast before he chooses to speak again.

“You assaulted me,” Harry says.

Krum startles. “I...do not know vat you remember, Harry. But, I did not—”

“Spare me the lies,” Harry interrupts. He slowly pushes up his sleeves and unravels the bandages there. He reveals the old bruises there. It’s been a week and a day. They are yellow now, but they are still the shape of hands. “You grabbed my wrists. You made me drop my wand. You pushed me against the wall. You choked me with this locket.”

Harry grabs his locket and lifts it up.

“I—”

“You turned me and you tore open my pants. Your shitty Headmaster saw and did nothing to help me. You _ assaulted _me,” Harry says, sharply. He slams his hands down on the table, loud enough to make Krum jump, and Krum looks caught.

His gaze goes towards Karkaroff, at the end of the table, but Harry shakes his head.

“No. Don’t look at him. Look _ at me_,” Harry snarls, voice going deep and guttural.

Krum’s breath catches. “I didn’t…I didn’t vant to—”

“Did he tell you to hurt me so that you could win?” Harry asks, voice hard.

Krum remains soft and nervous for just a moment. Like he thinks that’ll make Harry change his attitude. And then, his eyes narrow and he looks like the boy that _ hurt _Harry. The boy from the shadows.

“No. But, it vas an added bonus to the goal,” Krum says.

Harry thinks back to Tom and Igor Karkaroff in the corridor. He thinks back to Tom humiliating the man behind him, and the way Karkaroff’s gaze froze on him.

“Karkaroff is Tom’s concern. He’ll handle him. But, you. You’re _ mine_, aren’t you?” Harry drawls. And when Krum sneers, Harry bares his teeth. He is not numb anymore. He doesn’t want to be numb for this. He wants to feel this, remember this moment, _ forever. _“You do not scare me.”

Krum pauses as he stares at Harry.

Harry lifts his chin as he looks across the table. He leans forward, balancing his chin on his fingers. He waits for Krum to speak. Krum opens his mouth and then closes it again. His gaze hardens.

“I think—”

“Shh,” Harry barks. “Don’t think. You should be afraid.”

Krum grins. “Of who? Little _ Reedle_.”

And Harry growls out, “Of _ me. _”

Krum leans back, staring at Harry, wide-eyed.

“You don’t have power over me. Never of _ me_,” Harry spits out. Then, very gently, he says, “And I want you to know something.”

Viktor pauses to look at him, eyes wide. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.

“I look forward to destroying you today,” Harry says quietly. His lips curl into a slow smile. “I am well versed in martial magic. I will use it liberally. Thoroughly. And if need be, _ lethally_. See you on the duelling platform, Krum.”

Harry leans back and waves his wand with a non-verbal _ Finite_.

The world is loud again and Harry smiles brightly at Krum, as he leans back and finishes his breakfast.


	74. SATURDAY, 11:24 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, there is _ the _ duel.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Stack my money fast and go (fast, fast, go)  
Fast like a Lambo (skrrt, skrrt, skrrt)  
I be jumpin' off the stage, ho (jumpin', jumpin', hey, hey)  
Crowd better savor (crowd goin' ape, hey)  
I can't believe we made it (this is what we made, made)  
This is what we're thankful for (this is what we thank, thank)  
I can't believe we made it (this a different angle)  
Have you ever seen the crowd goin' apeshit? Rah!"
> 
> APESHIT, The Carters

Bellatrix wins against the first Durmstrang boy easily.

It’s a bloodbath.

Quite literally.

She emerges, victorious, smothered in the blood of the broken boy, baring her teeth as she shoves her red-slick fist into the air. She receives the vicious cheers like a gladiator, grinning into the void. Bellatrix jumps off the platform, landing with a heavy thud as Bagman ascends, looking shaky. Bagman eyes her shiftily as Bellatrix swans forward and throws her arms around the Lestrange brothers, tugging them in.

“_Ugh, _Bella,” Rabastan groans, squirming away from her, blood staining his robes.

Harry pays very little attention to the trio. All of his attention is split between two points—Bagman and the boy that stands at his side.

“_ANDREI PETROVSKY HAS BEEN RENDERED UNABLE TO CONTINUE. WINNER: BELLATRIX BLACK._”

Harry looks at Tom from the corner of his eye.

“You still wanted to duel with me,” Harry murmurs.

Tom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t look at Harry. He stares straight ahead like he’s only got ears for Bagman. Harry thinks that he means to ignore him, childishly, and then, Tom speaks.

“You are my equal,” Tom says. He pauses, like he’s considering each word carefully. “You’re wearing my Locket again.”

Harry lets out a long sigh and reaches for his locket. He clings to it, and then he tucks it into his duelling uniform, feels the cool metal pressed to his skin, like a balm. He’s too hot, too anxious, his bones writhing under his skin.

“I never stopped wanting you,” Harry confesses, his words nearly getting lost to the building tension, the cheers from both sides. The Durmstrang students have recruited Castelbruxo, and half of the Ilvermorny and Mahoutokoro students. Uagadou and Beauxbatons have firmly sided with Tom and Harry, respectively. “And I never stopped being ashamed.”

And while Bellatrix might think she’s ashamed of him, while the whole world might think it’s only about Harry not wanting this _ man_, he knows—_he feels it deep in the gut of him_—that it’s also about this man not wanting him.

“Harry Potter,” Tom says. And then, he stops.

“_IN THE DOUBLES ROUND, TOM RIDDLE AND HARRY POTTER DOTH CHALLENGE VIKTOR KRUM AND KATARINA SVOBODOVÁ._”

And Harry looks at him, staring up at him. “You have your faults, but...I never stopped considering you the very best thing.”

And then, he steps up onto the platform, shaking his wrists out. Tom is a half-second behind him, and when Harry looks back, he’s wearing a mask. It’s as if that moment had never happened, and Harry thinks they’re both better for it.

On the other end of the duelling platform, Krum and Katarina ascend. Katarina leans in, whispering in Krum’s ear, her eyes never leaving Harry’s face. Krum’s mouth twitches, something mean entering his eyes. It’s not cruel. Just mean. Childish.

_ ( _ It’s not your fault, _ Harry tells himself. He tries to believe—) _

“_THEY BOW._”

As Katarina and Krum give cursory bows, neither Harry or Tom move, standing straight-backed, wands in hand.

A series of _ ‘oooohs’ _ rings out, and Katarina and Krum jerk up when they realize why.

Katarina spits something in Russian, but Harry doesn’t even care to decipher it. He glances at Bagman; Bagman stares between the two pairs, eyes flitting. He waggles his eyebrows for the benefit of the press that sits, pressed up against the wall.

“_WELL, THIS WILL BE INTERESTING,_” Bagman booms. He takes a long, heavy pause. “_LET THE DUEL COMMENCE_.”

Harry moves first. He stomps hard down on the duelling platform, so hard that Katarina jumps, and then, Harry spins, lashing out with a vicious, _ Flipendo_. Katarina gasps as mid-jump, she’s flung back in the air, landing heavily on her back, cracking her head against the wood. Tom moves next to him, flinging a curse at Krum that he bats away carelessly. Katarina rolls to avoid the curse, staring at the scorched wood.

She flings herself onto all fours, glaring, and Harry doesn’t give her a chance to continue before he’s throwing every spell that he knows at her. Katarina is beaten back in the onslaught, reduced to only putting up Shield Charms. Harry won’t give her a chance to fucking retaliate. She sneers at him, and he can see it in her eyes.

_ (She knows, _he can see.)

Harry isn’t used to duelling with someone else. From the corner of his eye, he sees Krum and Tom engaged in a much Darker sort of duel, violent spells being flung at one another, recklessly. Harry moves further up, eyes on Katarina, and he’s nearly level with Krum. Krum looks at him from the corner of his eye and then, he twitches towards, Harry, enough to make him flinch.

Krum smirks. “_Shlyukha_,” he hisses. It’s close enough that Harry knows exactly what he’s being called.

_ Slut. Whore. _

It’s all the same.

Harry hesitates for just a moment.

It’s enough.

Krum flicks his wand, and the only reason it doesn’t connect is because Tom _ Summons _him to his side, like he’s a lost item. Tom catches him around the waist, only taking a single step back to regain his footing. The spell that Krum sent at his face scorches the wall. It gives Katarina time to regroup and she struggles to her feet, grabbing onto Krum’s arm.

He doesn’t help her up instead sneering right at Harry.

“What did he say to you?” Tom hisses in his ear. “You flinched, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything as he watches Katarina and Krum. Both teams seem to have recognized that it was time to breathe. They would give each other respite, for only a few second, at the most.

Harry’s gaze narrows on Viktor Krum.

(_ He hurt you. Hehurtyou. _ ** _HE HURT YOU._ **)

And Harry _ feels_. He does not feel numb. He feels too much. He feels—

“Give me your wand.”

Harry says it softly, but hard enough that Tom knows he’s serious. They’re kneeling from the barrage of spells that Krum is throwing, more and more frantic with each passing moment. Harry can see in his wild eyes that Krum knows what’s coming. Tom’s eyes narrow on Harry’s face.

He knows what Harry’s asking without Harry having to say it.

Dark Arts licenses are linked to wands.

Not people.

Then: _ “Fumos_.”

Smoke explodes around them, throwing everything into a dark haziness.

It’s a simple slip of wands, unnoticed.

Harry feels Tom’s wand in his hand and he feels _ powerful_.

He wonders if this is how Tom always feels—like he is infinite, like he is power personified, like he is that which never dies.

If this is how Tom always feels, Harry understands why he is the way he is.

“_Ventus Tria_,” he snarls, blasting the smoke away.

He can feel everyone’s confusion. No one understands why.

They don’t need to.

Krum stares at them, wide-eyed. Katarina stumbles, favoring her left leg.

“_Serpensortia!_” Harry cries out, and a python shoots out from the end of his wand, right at Katarina. Katarina gasps, lifting her wand, but it’s not enough.

Tom hisses in Parseltongue, and the snake twists mid-air, jerking out of the way of Katarina’s spell. It hits the duelling platform hard and shoots forward. Tom flicks Harry’s wand, and Katarina flips _ again _, landing on the platform with a heavy thud. The snake shoots forward and wraps around her neck, squeezing the life from her.

Harry turns back to Krum and closes his eyes. Just for a moment.

He remembers his own words: _ Because there are people out there—sick, unbalanced people that need Mind Healers—that created spells that could bind a consciousness to an inanimate object. That created spells where all you want to do is scream, but you can’t, because look, you don’t have a mouth. Hexes and jinxes that creep, rotting and irreversible and marrow-deep. _

Harry has no regrets doing this.

“_Oscausi_.”

Krum’s eyes widen as the spell hits him square in the face. From down a long tunnel, Harry can hear everyone’s gasps as Krum’s mouth seals shut, his mouth sliding away, leaving nothing but a blank slate of skin. Krum makes a noise, reaching for his mouth, and then Harry and Tom charge forward, sliding around both Krum and Katarina.

“You can’t forfeit verbally now, can you?” Harry sneers, and then he slashes his wand down again, mimicking Bellatrix once more, sending out Tom’s wand into a long, pale whip that slashes across Krum’s face, leaving a deep red mark.

Krum bats his wand, attempting to bat away the spells, but between Tom immobilizes each one and Harry tossing out curses like they’re candy. Harry snarls, _ Afflicto_, and he hears the sickening crack of bones. He watches Krum’s arm twist unnaturally, and then, bone splits sleeve and skin, blood pouring out profusely. Krum’s eyes widen in pain and Harry grins.

_ Exoculo_, he flings out, and Krum’s eyes go hazy with blindness. He tries to scream, but no one can hear him.

Harry skids across the duelling platform, boots sliding through blood. He ignores Katarina, passed out as she is on the duelling platform, the snake still widening around her body, like it’s ready to eat her alive. Harry grabs Krum by the collar and yanks back, choking him. He leans down, pressing the heat of his body to Krum’s back. Krum shivers and Harry can practically taste the salt of his tears.

“No one can hear you scream now, can they?” Harry whispers in his ear. Then he knees Krum hard in the back, sending him face-first onto the duelling platform. He feels righteous when he hears the crunch of his nose.

He looks over Krum’s shoulder, directly into Tom’s eyes.

Tom is staring at him, nostrils flared. Harry knows that face.

He’s _ aroused_.

Krum drops his wand, shaking. Harry smells the stink of piss and stares down at Krum’s humiliation.

The Great Hall is utterly silent.

Harry turns Bagman. Bagman is pale as a ghost, his lips parted.

And gently, Harry says, “I think this duel is over.”

He walks away from the Durmstrang students, each step measured, until he reaches Tom. He looks up into his face. Tom looks down at him.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” Tom whispers.

Harry snorts. “You’re just saying that,” he drawls. He holds his hand out, takes his wand from Tom. Tom takes his back and sighs, like it’s a revelation.

Bagman seems to gather his wits. “_I—IN A STUNNING, BRUTAL TURN, TOM RIDDLE AND HARRY POTTER HAVE WON AGAINST VIKTOR KRUM AND KATARINA SVOBODOVÁ. HOGWARTS HAS WON THE ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL INTRA-SCHOOL DUELLING COMPETITION._”

And then there is raucous applause. The Hogwarts duelling club screams, jumping up onto the platform. Bellatrix flings herself into Tom’s arms and he just barely catches her, looking stunning. The Defence Squad consumes Harry. It’s easy to forget how he wants to be numb this way, it’s easy to forget what the calm of potions taste like on his tongue. It’s not easy to forget euphoria and he craves it, now that it’s done, now that Madame Pomfrey and the Healers on deck are rushing to correct the damage done to Krum and Katarina.

“You did it, Harry!” Hermione insists, her arms tight around him, Lavender on the other side. “I’m so _ proud _of you.”

And they’re all proud, he knows, but he knows that when Ron and Hermione say it, they mean something more than that. They’re talking about what Krum did to him. Harry smiles, and it’s a mouth full of swords, double-edged, because he _ won, _but somehow, he doesn’t quite feel it.

He looks at Tom, again, Tom whom hasn’t looked away from him.

Harry tugs himself out of the Defence Squad’s hold and he reaches out for Tom at the same moment that Tom reaches for him. He glances over and sees Remus and Sirius fighting the sea of students to speak to him, and Harry knows this will be the only moment he has for hours yet.

“We need to talk,” Harry shouts into the din, but Tom hears him easily.

Tom nods. “Yes,” he agrees. He pauses. “You were excellent. We won. Because of you.”

_ And your use of the Dark Arts_, Tom doesn’t say. Harry hears it anyway.

Harry smirks. “Congratulations, killer. You’re a _ winner_.”

Tom’s grin is just as mean.

Harry thinks he might love it.


	75. SATURDAY, 9:43PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Tom talk.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Maybe won't you take it back?  
Say you were tryna make me laugh  
And nothing has to change today  
You didn't mean to say "I love you"  
I love you and I don't want to, ooh"
> 
> -i love you, Billie Eilish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See warnings at the end.

The party rages onward downstairs.

Gryffindor Tower is packed from curved wall to curved wall with students from all Houses and schools, with the exception of Durmstrang. The party spills outward, the Fat Lady constantly swinging open as people spread their joy. Harry can hear the music as it reaches upwards towards his dorm, but he doesn’t move.

He’s comfortable, laying on his side, in his bed. His body curves towards Tom and he sighs, sinking deeper into the mattress, as he feels Tom’s fingers brush feather-light across his jaw. Harry keeps his eyes from drooping, choosing to remember Tom’s face instead.

“When do you think it’ll stop?” Harry asks, softly.

He’s talking about the party. He thinks he’s talking about the party.

“Whenever a professor finds that it should be over. Which is to say, not for quite a while,” Tom decides. He curls closer, and leans forward, nudging his nose against Harry’s. He kisses him, first on the cheek, then the corner of his mouth, before he kisses him properly.

Harry lets himself be kissed.

When Tom pulls back, Harry gives a tired smile.

“So much for space,” he says. He tries to joke, but it comes out flat.

Tom stares back at him. “Do you still want that? Space?”

“No...no, I—” and Harry pauses.

“And you were in the Storeroom the other night. Harry,” Tom says softly, severely.

Harry frowns to himself. “We should talk about today. About the duel.”

Tom closes his eyes for a moment. While they’re closed, he says, “You used my wand. You used Dark magic. You don’t have a license.”

“I know the rules. It’s about the wand. They didn’t expect that I’d be able to use your wand so well,” Harry says.

It was something that had been discussed in the aftermath. There was a question whether Harry’s use of the Dark Arts were legal in terms of the duel. Karkaroff had screamed and shrieked that it hadn’t been, but there weren’t any rules in place against it. So, Harry had gotten away with it. He suspects that for next year, the rules will be adjusted.

“What did he say to you?” Tom asks. “He made you angry.”

Harry swallows, and thinks about answering. He clings to the locket around his neck and sits up, slowly. Tom finally opens his eyes, watching him. Harry crawls to the end of the bed and flips open his trunk. He very carefully shoves his Euphoria Elixir deeper into the trunk and pulls out his jeans and his t-shirt from that night.

Even still—_it’s not your fault_—his stomach turns just a little.

He holds the clothes to his chest, and keeps his back to Tom for a moment. He feels Tom shift to sit up against the headboard and then, Harry turns, looking at him with wide eyes. Tom’s eyes flit over him, and then, he must see something, because his eyes harden.

“What did he _ do_?” Tom asks, voice soft with danger and warning.

Harry swallows hard. He can’t look at him and he slides to sit on the edge of the bed, his feet touching the floor, grounding him. He finds his roots there as he bends over the clothes in his lap.

“I...last week, I realized that I'd had enough space. I’ve known for a while that I didn’t want...space. I wanted _ you_. I _ want _you,” Harry whispers. “I went to look for you. And instead, I came across the Beauxbatons students and...the Durmstrang students.”

Tom shifts closer. Harry can feel the weight of his eyes. He doesn’t say anything.

“I liked Fleur. She was nice. We ended up at the Durmstrang ship, and we...drank. And...Krum...he...he, um,” Harry stops. He swallows hard, forces the lump down his throat.

“He. _ Didn’t_.”

Tom says it so coldly, so sharply, that Harry jumps.

“He, um, didn’t..._ rape _me. But...he tried.”

Harry falls silent, because he doesn’t want to lay it all out again. He doesn’t _ want _ to. He’s so tired of speaking his trauma again, and again and _ again_. He’s been doing it for so long now that he wants to hoard it for himself, keep it in his chest.

“He tried,” Tom repeats, voice lilting. He falls silent. Then. “Harry.”

He slides over and then off the bed. Harry keeps his gaze trained on his lap.

And then, slowly, Tom sinks to his knees in front of him. He takes Harry’s hands, unknotting his fingers from the broken, torn fabric, and his hands are a balm on Harry’s. Harry’s shaking, and he finds it so hard to look at him.

“I’m…I’m...I don’t know...and Karkaroff just...didn’t do anything. He saw, but he didn’t...he _ tried_. He didn’t—” Harry isn’t making sense.

“Shh, shh,” Tom whispers.

And Harry falls silent.

“Darling,” Tom says and Harry’s voice flutters at the way he says that—Tom only calls him that when they are alone and he is feeling soft—, “I am so sorry.”

And Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

Tom never apologizes.

Not even for the things he’s done himself.

And so, Harry knows that something is _ wrong_.

“Tom—” Harry whispers, his voice cracking.

Tom brings his hands up to his lips, presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You didn’t do _ anything _wrong,” Tom swears, and then, he lets go, letting Harry’s hands drop back into his lap uselessly.

He stands up with unspeakable grace and turns his back on Harry. Harry’s breath comes faster and he reaches out, stumbling upward, as he watches Tom walk away from him, taking the room in strides.

“Tom!” Harry calls.

Tom stops in the doorway, but he doesn’t turn around. Harry stares at the tension in his back, shivering. He bites his bottom lip and wraps his arms around his middle because he feels like he’s fracturing into a million pieces and he doesn’t _ understand_. Except, he does. He knows exactly what Tom's doing, and Tom isn't doing what Harry _needs_. Tom is doing what Tom always does: he's doing what _he _wants.

“Harry, I have somewhere—”

“_No_,” Harry snarls, shaking apart and he wants to reach for Tom, but he won’t, he can’t, because if Tom doesn’t reach back, Harry will _ shatter_. “Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare _ l-leave _me.”

“Harry, darling,” Tom says again.

He opens the door, and he pauses, when he sees the Defence Squad on the landing below, their smiles dying on their faces. They have food in their hands, probably to bring it up to Harry. Hermione’s eyes are round and shiny, like she knows.

Tom only looks at them for a second and then he leaves.

He _ leaves_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: discussions of sexual assault
> 
> ~*~
> 
> A/N: There's always a backslide when it comes to things like this, particularly when Harry hasn't had a real session with Miriam yet. But, we'll get there soon! I promise! And there WILL be a happy ending. I'm just trying to convey a message, but for the time being, Tom looks bad. Lol sorry. Remember! They're both still teenagers, and no matter how smart Tom is, one can't say he has the _ most _ emotional intelligence. BUT, all will be well!


	76. MONDAY, 8:39AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry says goodbye.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "If teardrops could be bottled  
There'd be swimming pools filled by models  
Told a tight dress is what makes you a whore  
If "I love you" was a promise  
Would you break it, if you're honest  
Tell the mirror what you know she's heard before  
I don't wanna be you anymore"
> 
> -idontwannabeyouanymore, Billie Eilish

There is a ritual to how Harry Potter readies himself in the morning.

Sometimes, he will wake up early.

He will wake up and he will shower and he will dress before anyone rises except for Neville. He will leave Gryffindor Tower and he will go down to the kitchens, where he will have the house elves and himself for company.

Today is not one of those mornings.

He wishes that it were.

Instead, he goes to breakfast, tucked between Ron and Hermione, Lavender, Luna, and Ginny across from him. They are all more subdued than they should. All of the newspapers that land—the Quibbler, the Daily Prophet, even the tabloid rag _ Spellbound_—declare the Hogwarts Duelling Team as winners. Only _ Spellbound _mentions Harry and Tom’s relationship. Ginny snatches it and balls it up the moment she sees it.

“Harry, love,” Lavender says, cheerfully, her lips pulling into a smile. “Are you going to eat?”

It’s a strange twist of fate, that she’s asking him now.

Harry stares down at the Prophet, tapping his fingers against the edge of the table.

He stares at the picture that the Prophet chose. For the front page, it’s all of the team posing around the trophy. But, where the story continues on page 4, there is an enormous picture of Tom and Harry right in the aftermath of their duel.

Harry’s splattered with slight blood. He and Tom are pressed chest to chest, and Harry can read Tom’s lips in the picture.

_ You’re beautiful, darling_.

Harry looks up. “No, I’m not hungry,” he says.

He’s not lying either. He feels a lot of things—he’s twitching for a Calming Draught or even a Draught of Peace. His anxiety is a monstrous thing, rearing up in his chest, clawing at his insides. But, he doesn’t have anymore.

All he has is the Euphoria Elixir tucked under his mattress, just enough for a single dose.

He’s saving that up for something special.

“Are you sure, mate? You should eat—” Ron begins.

Harry grabs a piece of toast and takes one big bite out of it. He waves the bread in Ron’s face before dropping it onto the plate. Ron’s expression sours, but he doesn’t say much of anything else. Luna shifts between Ginny and Lavender.

“I’m sure you’re quite excited to see off your new friend,” Luna says sweetly.

Hermione frowns. “Your new friend?” she asks, looking over at Harry.

“Philip told me that Harry has made friends with Fleur Delacour!” Luna says. “You should make sure to stay in contact. She’s quite lovely. According to Philip, of course.”

Ron gawks at Harry. “Mate...you’re friends with Fleur Delacour?” he whispers.

“Oh, here we go,” Ginny groans.

Harry’s mouth twitches, because this is normal. He would like some normal right now. He listens to Ron and Ginny bicker again about their Beauxbatons double, and he makes soft side comments to Hermione to make her laugh, and he smiles across the table at Luna and Lavender. Lavender returns those smiles, but there’s something in her eyes—

Well, in any case, Harry looks away as they waste time.

Classes are pushed by an hour today, for the goodbyes.

Harry stands when the duelling students go to make their mass exodus, and the rest of the Defence Squad follows. Harry doesn’t think it’s a mistake that the Death Eaters don’t ever venture too close, though he does make eye contact with Bellatrix.

He expects her to sneer at him.

She just stares at him, very seriously, before she whispers in Tom’s ear, as she always does.

Harry doesn’t let himself think about them for too long—_what is she whispering? what does she know? are they back together—_and instead goes to find the Beauxbatons students.

Fleur finds him first. “‘Arry Potter!” she crows.

Ron squeaks behind him.

Harry grins. “Fleur Delacour!” he declares, and he goes to meet her halfway.

“Goodbye, ‘Arry,” Fleur says. She stares down at him, her lips curling into a soft smile. She holds out her hands and Harry doesn’t hesitate to take them. “We must continue our friendship, I tink.”

“I agree,” Harry says firmly.

Fleur hums. “I am tinking of taking summer job at Gringotts. To improve my _ Eenglesh_,” Fleur says, rolling her eyes. The way she says it is kinda hilarious, and a laugh burbles out from Harry’s chest.

“I think your English is pretty great,” Harry says earnestly.

Fleur only winks at him and then she tugs him in, wrapping her arms around him. Harry hugs her back, hooking his chin over her shoulder. He pulls back and smiles at her. Fleur’s smile widens.

“Well, let us not let my maman and Papa know that,” she says.

Before Harry can say much of anything else, he’s interrupted by a shout from Karkaroff: “Where’s Viktor?”

Fleur’s gaze hardens as she recognizes the voice, and she glares across the courtyard.

“Oh, ‘Arry, I wish you would’ve—” she begins, and Harry knows she’s going to mention Karkaroff again, but Harry feels better after beating Krum to a pummel and humiliating him in front of everyone.

He wants to just pretend it hadn’t happened.

“_VIKTOR?” _ Karkaroff shouts again.

Harry pauses as he turns away from Fleur. “Have you seen Krum?” he asks. “I haven’t seen him since—”

They both jerk when they hear the question repeated again, even louder, and it disrupts a few of the other schools departing.

“Viktor!” That’s Katarina, shouting for him, looking around. She spits something in frantic Russian, then seems to repeat it in another language, maybe Czech. The other Durmstrang students shift in confusion, looking around too.

“Viktor! Viktor!”

They’re shouting it again and again, causing a stir of confusion through the rest of the students. The Ilvermorny students don’t seem to care enough, already parading out, taking their defeat with little grace. Fleur’s eyes harden.

“If ‘e is lost, good riddance,” Fleur spits.

And then, Harry’s eyes catch on a boy.

_ His _boy.

Tom stares back at him, his expression carefully in place, but Harry can always read the righteousness in his shoulders, in his bones. Harry’s nostrils flare, and he feels something stir in his belly; it’s not sadness or desperation, but he’s not ready to put a name to it, just yet. He doesn’t want to think about what burns there inside of him, something _ real_. He doesn’t want to name it, but he doesn’t want to numb it, so he lets it simmer.

“Oh. I don’t think he’s _ lost_,” Harry mutters under his breath.

“What?” Fleur asks.

“Nothing. I’m really gonna miss you, Fleur. I promise to write,” Harry says firmly. Fleur nods, her lips twitching and she folds him into another hug before she steps back, beckoning her little sister, Gabrielle, to her, before they go off to join the other Beauxbatons students.

Harry glances back at Tom. Tom takes a step towards him and Harry lifts his chin in challenge.

Before Tom can make his way over, his path is cut off.

Professor Snape swoops down in front of Harry, glaring down at him with black beady eyes. Harry does his very best not to flinch.

“_ Mr. _Potter,” Snape says. He always speaks with this very specific tone when he addresses Harry. It’s heavy with disdain and generous with a sneer.

“Professor Snape?” Harry asks.

“While I _ hate _ to interrupt your amorous goodbyes,” Snape says, and Harry _ knows _he’s being nasty on purpose, because he definitely knows that there’s something between Harry and Tom. Everyone knows that, though Harry doesn’t think everyone’s exactly sure of what it is. Harry’s not even sure. “I believe there is a conversation to be had.”

“Oh?” Harry lilts.

“Mr. Potter, as I told you, there has been a break-in in my apothecary. I am quite aware of your...penchant for certain tinctures and tastes. Now, I will not ask again. Did you steal from me?” Snape hisses, sharp and terrible.

It’s easy for Harry to look at him, not in the eye but to the left, and lie. “No, Professor. And if you keep accusing me, I think I’ll have to complain to my godparents. Or the Headmaster.”

Snape pales, and then he turns puce. “Listen, you little _ addict_—”

“Excuse me, Professor.” Harry turns his back on him.

He’s so tired.

“TWENTY POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR!” Snape snarls, but it’s lost in the cheers as the Ilvermorny students Portkey off.

Harry is _ so _tired.


	77. TUESDAY, 8:07AM-12:09PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry isn't hungry.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Don't you know I'm no good for you?  
I've learned to lose you, can't afford to  
Tore my shirt to stop you bleedin'  
But nothin' ever stops you leavin'  
Quiet when I'm coming home and I'm on my own  
I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that  
I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that"
> 
> when the party's over, billie eilish

Durmstrang never left yesterday. Their ship is still there. Harry saw when he tried to get up that morning. He saw their ship on the lake, which means Krum is still missing. Krum is still gone.

Harry thinks he knows where Krum has gone.

“Come on, Harry.”

Harry stares into the beam of light, eyes tracking the dust mites. Ron is a blurred figure in front of him, something that he doesn’t want, someone that he doesn’t want to see. Harry turns in his bed, burying the side of his face into his pillow. Half of his world sinks into darkness and it is good.

It isn’t good.

It’s better.

“Dobby made...Dobby made eggs and bacon. It’s here,” Ron says. He’s trying to sound upbeat, but Harry can hear how he’s fraying at the edges.

Harry did this to him.

Harry ruins everyone he touches.

Ron clears his throat and bustles forward, rearranging things around on Harry’s nightstand. Harry hears the clatter of a plate being put down. Ron lets out a long breath, and shakes his head.

“Harry, we have to _ go. _We have Potions to—” Ron begins.

“Tell Remus I’m sick if he asks.”

That’s all Harry can manage to say.

Ron is quiet for a beat. Then, he sighs. “Okay.”

Harry listens to him go, and sinks into that strange state in between waking and sleep. He watches the sun shift and get higher, the light calming from a harsh white to something kinder. He doesn’t know how much time passes.

He doesn’t care.

And then, he hears someone coming up the stairs.

He expects it to be Neville or Dean or even Seamus.

He sits up, finds a lie on his tongue.

It is not Neville or Dean or even Seamus.

“You haven’t eaten.”

Harry falls onto his back and stares up into the crimson folds of the canopy hanging down. They’re the red of blood; he knows that because he’s seen the insides of himself enough to know that. He’s leaked that color before.

The bed shifts under him as she crawls into the bed. She sits up against the headboard and her hand falls to the top of his head.

“I haven’t eaten either,” she says. “But...it’s important to eat. You told me that.”

Harry makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. He can’t help it.

Her hand tightens in his curls just for a moment, her fingernails running over his scalp.

“I brought roast beef sandwiches,” she says. “It’s...it’s bread and beef. A lot of people think that bread isn’t good for you. But, it’s whole-wheat bread. And...and whole wheat bread provides a lot of key nutrients. And...and it’s very rich in fiber and protein.”

Harry huffs out what might be a laugh, but sometimes, he isn’t sure if he knows what laughter sounds like, much less his own. He turns and presses his face into the crimson sheets and shakes against it, his hiccups either laughter or sobs, but he isn’t sure. He can feel the heat of her hand, hovering over his shoulder, and when he goes stiff, she pulls her hand away, probably tucks it between her thighs like she’s wont to do.

“Harry…you have to eat,” she whispers. “You’d make me eat, wouldn’t you? You have to take care of yourself, instead of trying to take care of everyone else. Let me be your hero, Harry, like you always try to be everyone else’s.”

Harry has never been good at taking care of himself. He’d been raised to think that it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says. He always thinks that he should come last. But, now, there’s no one else to take care of him, but himself. Sometimes, he thinks he’s not brave enough to do it.

“Harry, _ please_,” she practically begs.

He has to be brave enough.

Slowly, Harry sits up next to Lavender and turns to look at her. He expects to see tears in her eyes, like all of the others. Everyone has cried for him, even Luna, because he hasn’t managed to cry for himself yet, not since _ he _left Harry.

But Lavender isn’t crying. She stares at him with clear hazel eyes and a wrapped sandwich sitting on top of her palm. Slowly, Harry takes it from her, and the clear wrap crinkles against his fingers. He unwraps it and settles it in his lap. He looks over at Lavender, waiting for her to do the same. Lavender unwraps her sandwich and she nods, picking it up and taking a hearty bite.

Harry lifts the sandwich to his lips. He inhales deeply.

Salty and rich with fat. His mouth waters at the scent of spicy mustard.

Harry takes a bite.


	78. WEDNESDAY, 4:37PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry tells a story.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "But I'm holding on for dear life  
Won't look down, won't open my eyes  
Keep my glass full until morning light  
'Cause I'm just holding on for tonight  
Help me, I'm holding on for dear life"
> 
> -Chandelier, Sia

The Room of Requirement isn’t just Harry’s safe place.

It’s Defence Squad’s now too.

Or maybe, it’s still his, and he’s sharing it with them. He can’t quite tell anymore. The Room has taken on personal touches from the others, now, though. There’s usually a chessboard now, a small bookshelf, floating pink curtains. But, there’s always the piano. Harry can’t imagine that he still wants to play.

“I honestly can’t wait for Quidditch to start up again,” Ginny says.

Luna bounces up and down, clapping her hands together. “Oh, _ yes, _I have so much to say in my commentary this term. I have to freshen up my lion hat!”

“Yeah, _ that’s _what you need to do,” Hermione mutters under her breath, though she’s trying her damn best not to smile.

Harry’s still staring at the piano, squinting at it. The last time he played, he played for Tom, he thinks. He doesn’t remember when he played before that. He watches it slowly start to fade away, to turn to magic, to nothingness.

“When do you think practices will start up again?” Ron is asking Harry. Then. “Harry?”

Harry jumps and frowns.

He used to love to play. It used to make him happy.

He misses being happy.

“Soon,” he says distractedly as he stands to his feet. Hermione opens her mouth to say something and then, she seems to think better of it when she sees the direction. He’s heading in.

Harry ignores the way the conversation tapers off as he sits at the piano bench. He ignores the way they creep closer as he flexes his fingers over the ivory keys. He thinks about playing what he played for Tom, and then decides against it.

And then, he plays Chopin.

Harry takes it slowly, breathing through it. He is always fast, too fast. It’s his worst habit. He moves at the speed of light, but this. This, he doesn’t need to. He needs to breathe and move. His fingers trill against the keys as he rocks with the tempo, slower than a waltz, slower than his heartbeat.

Harry can feel the tension in his body mimic the tension of the piece, and he feels it drain off as he plays the runs. He feels the music peaking as the notes get higher and higher and then slower and slower, until he stops breathing the moment he stops playing.

When he’s done, he lets the notes sit in the air. Luna leads the applause. Ginny looks up at Harry, wide-eyed.

“Harry, I didn’t know you could play like _ that_,” she says.

“I don’t play like that. Not anymore,” Harry declares. He leans forward, weighing his words. He has an appointment with Miriam tomorrow. And somehow, he’s not as scared anymore. “I used to play a lot as part of my therapy.”

Hermione and Ron are much stiller than they usually are. The others can tell.

“Therapy?” Lavender asks.

But, Harry doesn’t want to answer her question just yet. He looks over at Hermione and Ron. “You know what happened to Krum. I’ve heard whispers all day, and every time I hear something, you two steer me away. What happened to him?” Harry asks even though he very much suspects what happened. He looks over at Lavender, but she looks pale.

“He was...um, found last night. At the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He had to be admitted to St. Mungo’s,” Hermione says nervously. “I don’t know the details.”

Harry suspects that she doesn’t. He does suspect that Lavender does.

“Lavender, what’s wrong with him?” he asks.

Lavender pauses. “Ah, you didn’t...hear it from me. But, Susan Bones’ aunt, Amelia Bones is the Head of the DMLE and she got involved. So did Barty Crouch, the head of the IMC. He was found with Cruciatus Curse nerve damage, and a broomstick was broken over his back, and...someone magically removed his kneecaps.”

Ginny whistles and Luna flinches hard. Hermione and Ron exchange looks.

Harry leans forward. “The DMLE is involved?” he asks.

“Yeah...Karkaroff too. Something about...bets,” Lavender squeaks.

Harry tilts his head. “Was Tom brought in for questioning?”

Ron jumps. “How did you...how did you know?” he asks.

“Because I _ know _ Tom,” Harry says, meaningfully, and then, he leaves it at that because he won’t say more. He always knew that Tom didn’t leave him because he was disgusted. He always knew why Tom left.

He also knows himself.

He also knows these people.

“I have something to tell you,” he decides. He stands up from the piano and ushers them back to the plush pillows in the center of the room. They arrange themselves in front of him.

Harry stares at all of them. They sit on their knees, hands clenched into fists, like he is about to teach them something. Hermione and Ron are wary, waiting behind the three girls, silent supporters. It is enough.

And unflinchingly, he declares, “I’m an addict. An addict that recently relapsed.”

Ginny jumps. Lavender startles, her hand flying to her mouth to smother her gasp. Luna doesn’t move at all, staring up at Harry, patiently.

“When you say addict…” Here Ginny trails off uncomfortably, like she isn’t sure what to say to that.

Harry knows that she’s never met an addict. Any other addict than him, he means. He knows that she doesn’t know how to address it.

“I mean, I was an addict. I _ am _an addict. I’m addicted to mood-modifying potions. I’m not allowed to take them unless under strict circumstances, as prescribed by my Mind Healer. I took advantage of you not knowing and took the Draught of Peace and Calming Draught in front of both you and Luna,” Harry says firmly.

Ginny flinches hard, like it’s her fault, but Harry needs her to understand that it’s not. That his addiction is his and his alone. He needs them to understand.

“Okay. I have a story. It doesn’t start nicely, but I think it ends well enough,” Harry declares. “When I was a boy, my parents were murdered…”

And so, he tells them. He tells them about his parents’ murder and the Durselys’ treatment of him. He tells them about finding his way to Sirius and Remus. He tells them about losing himself to the trauma and finding numbness in potions and draughts. He tells them about finding salvation in Hermione and Ron. He tells them about discovering trauma in Krum.

He tells them about learning love in Tom.

And when he is done, he tells them.

He tells them about purging shame.

Shame. He feels none at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I just saw I crossed the thousand threshold in kudos! Thank you so much for the love!


	79. WEDNESDAY, 6:47PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry takes euphoria one last time.

Harry is alone.

He knows this is the last time he will be for a long time.

This will be the last time he ever does this, he thinks. This is not wishful thinking. He knows this to be true. He cradles the bottle of Euphoria Elixir in his lap and lays back in the bed that he and Tom shared over the winter holidays, for that one blissful week. He closes his eyes for a moment and reimagines it in his mind.

Merlin, he’d been happy.

He wants to be happy like that again.

He does not feel shame as he takes the Euphoria Elixir for the last time. He sets the bottle into his bag and lays onto his back. He stares up at the canopy, in the red and watches it darken as the sun sets. He doesn’t feel hungry, but he thinks he will be tomorrow. He thinks after tomorrow, after this, he’ll be able to eat again.

It’s the last time. He is washing it all away.

After tonight, he doesn’t think he’ll ever find comfort in numbness again.

It feels very much the same as it always does.

Euphoria creeps slowly. It encroaches. It’s the thing in the darkness, the thing that feels like light, almost, but not quite. When Harry takes Euphoria, he flies. All of the hurt, the bad things, slip away, replaced by something false, but familiar. Harry thinks he might’ve felt this once. He knows that he’s felt this before, and not from a battle.

When he turns his head, there is Tom.

Tom, who tastes like euphoria on Harry’s tongue.

_ ( _ He is not really there, _ Harry does not tell himself. It is easier to pretend.) _

Harry lifts his hand slowly, where he means to touch Tom’s cheek. He stops himself—

_ (He’s not really _ there._) _

Instead, Harry whispers, “Oh, you’re not going to ruin me. I’ve ruined me.”

Tom smiles at Harry.

And suddenly, Harry wants him to go _ away_. He wants Tom to go away, and he can’t seem to reach that euphoria again, not now that he’s felt it for real. Now, he knows what he means to feel it, and it’s warm like Hermione and Ron’s embrace, like Sirius and Remus’ love, like Tom’s mouth on his. Harry has felt it for real.

_ (This is the last time. This is not a lie.) _

Harry sighs and sinks lower. Softly, he sings to himself: “_I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves. He’s just a poor boy from a poor—_”

But, it’s not true anymore. He stops singing. He stares at this Tom—not his Tom but a Tom. He stares and nods to himself.

This is the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really important chapter for me, primarily because it's a different take on addiction that is just as valid. Some people simply have addictive personalities, so it's harder for them to quit certain substances. I think, particularly for Harry, with this being a magical substance that is meant to mimic a very specific thing that he has felt in real life, it would be different.
> 
> Thus, this is not a lie. This will truly be his last time taking euphoria elixir.


	80. THURSDAY, 8:31AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry has an appointment.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I feel you crumble in my arms down to your heart of stone  
You bled me dry just like the tears you never show  
Why don't you take what you want from me?  
Take what you need from me  
Take what you want and go  
Why don't you take what you want from me?  
Take what you need from me  
Take what you want and go"
> 
> -Take What You Want (Feat. Ozzy Osbourne), Post Malone & Travis Scott

Harry wakes up pressed between two bodies. Both of them are awake, speaking in hushed tones over his head. When he rolls over onto his back, Ron sticks his head in his field of vision first. He’s a strange blur, topped with bright orange hair, and Harry grins because he kinda looks stupid.

“Finally up, mate?” Ron asks.

Hermione passes his glasses over and Harry jams them on his face.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Harry mutters. He yawns to himself, slowly sitting up in his bed, his shoulders brushing theirs. He looks from his left to his right. “I have an appointment this morning. When did you two get here?”

“Middle of the night. We missed you, habibi,” Hermione murmurs.

“_Hermione _was worried,” Ron says, and Hermione snorts, rolling her eyes.

Harry smiles to himself. “You didn’t have to be worried,” he lies, because he knows they should’ve been. He took his last dose of Euphoria Elixir last night. He knows that it wasn’t enough to overdose, not like last time, but it’s good of them to check in.

He finds himself safe, where he is, tucked between them, but he knows it’s time to get up.

Harry slips out of the bed, gently parting the curtains. Seamus is up.

“Hey, mate,” Seamus yawns, waving.

“Hey,” Harry says. He looks back into his bed, his mouth twitching and then he throws the curtains wide. Hermione squawks.

Seamus stares wide-eyed. Then, he smiles something wicked. “_Kinky_.”

“Watch it, Finnegan,” Ron warns as he stretches his arms over his head. He rolls out of bed. “I’m going to get dressed. You should too. Hermione?”

Hermione nods in agreement. “I’ll be fast,” she declares. “Let’s meet in the Common Room. We’ll walk you over, Harry.”

Harry nods his acquiescence. He and Ron take part in their separate morning rituals, going through it calculatingly. Harry gets curious looks from Seamus, and Dean when he finally wakes up. He doesn’t put on his Hogwarts robes, instead choose to pull on jeans and a t-shirt. He grabs his thick sweater to pull over, in case it’s cold at St. Mungo’s.

When they meet Hermione downstairs, she’s curled over a book, scrawling out something.

“You’re the only girl I know that changes faster than a boy,” Ron declares.

Hermione snorts. “Maybe you just don’t know that many girls.”

“I know _ you_, Lavender, Luna, and I guess, Ginny!” Ron says. Hermione rolls her eyes as she shoves her book into her bag.

“I guess?” Harry questions, leading them out of the Common Room. “Is Ginny suddenly not a—”

Harry pauses when he sees his boy standing out of the portrait hole.

Tom stares at him, with a serious expression on his face. He’s holding a portable teacup in his hand. Even from where Harry stands he can smell the orange blossom.

“You need to _ go, _Riddle,” Ron says firmly.

“Now,” Hermione reiterates, just as coldly.

Tom looks between them, and then back at Harry. “Do they speak for you now?” he asks.

“They do right now. I have to go to see my Mind Healer,” Harry says.

Hermione startles. “Harry—” she whispers, and Harry remembers then that neither of them knows the extent of what Tom knows.

Well.

“I _ did _ steal potions when you caught me. And I _ did _take them,” Harry says. He takes a step forward, looking Tom up and down. He still can’t name what he feels for this boy. “But, I don’t think I’m your business anymore, so you need to stop coming here.”

He takes the teacup anyway, and then, he leaves Tom there. Tom doesn’t follow.

Ron looks down at him, wide-eyed. “He...he knows?”

“He knows a lot of things,” Harry deadpans.

“And he won’t tell?” Hermione asks gently.

Harry snorts. “No. Not if he doesn’t want me to tell everyone about the things that he’s done, and he has a _ lot _more to lose,” he says coldly. As they walk downstairs, he bites his bottom lip and sips on his tea. Then. “I took Euphoria Elixir last night. I hid it. It was the last thing I had. Feel free to have Dobby search to make sure.”

Hermione’s breath catches in her throat but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Alright, mate. We’ll do that while you’re gone,” Ron says. He nods to himself, like he’s confirming it, and then when they reach the door to the Defence room, he opens the door for the pair of them. They walk through the maze of desks, ascend the stairs to Remus’ rooms.

They knock once, and Sirius opens the door.

“Hey, kiddo,” he murmurs, reeling Harry in. He presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head, and Harry leans into his warmth. “You good?”

“I will be, I think. I just need to talk to Miriam,” Harry says softly. He’s needed to talk to her for a long time, now.

“Sounds good. When you get back, we’ll have lunch ready for you,” Remus says, crowding Harry on the other side. He looks down at Harry. “Do you know that we’re quite proud of you?”

“For winning the tournament?” Harry says with a small smile.

“Nah, kid. Just you being you. You’re the _ best _ part of our lives, you understand me?” Sirius asks, and he sounds like he’s fighting tears, but they’re happy now. He kisses the top of Harry’s head again. “We love you. So, _ so _ much. You’re our _ kid _.”

Harry sighs, leaning into them. “I’m your kid,” he repeats.

Remus nods. “Yes. Now, go on. You don’t want to be late.”

Harry pulls away from them. He glances back at Ron and Hermione. He smiles. “Thanks, you guys.”

“Always,” Hermione whispers.

Harry turns away, feeling for the bag that bounces against his side. He finishes his tea, sets the portable cup on the corner of Remus’ desk, and then touches the locket hidden under his clothes. Then, he goes to the fire, and grabs a pinch of Floo powder.

When he steps into the flames, he announces, “Miriam Strout’s office!”

And then, he’s spinning past grate after grate, making his way to St. Mungo’s. He catches a familiar glimpse of the office, and then, he steps out.

He admires the space. It’s not often that he has meetings with her in her office. It usually reminds him too much of his summer in rehab. But, now, he thinks he needs that reminder. He looks over at her. She’s sitting behind her massive desk, quill in hand. She glances up momentarily from her work.

“Oh, Harry. Good morning. Take a seat over there. I’m just finishing up,” Miriam says. Harry goes to sit down in one of the soft, plush chairs. “My patient—the one I couldn’t leave—is doing much better. I’ve transferred his care to someone more local, however.”

“That’s...that’s good,” Harry says. He knows better than to ask what was wrong with him.

Miriam is _ very _serious about Healer-patient confidentiality.

When Miriam is finished with her paperwork, she rolls up the parchment and then whistles. She busies herself, and as Harry waits, he grows more and more anxious. Miriam is rearranging books and papers, and when she finally sits down, it’s been about twenty minutes since Harry arrived. She leans forward in her chair, staring him in the eye.

“How are you, Harry?” she asks meaningfully. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

Harry pauses. “I...what?”

“You won the duelling tournament. You were even named ‘Duellist of the Year’,” Miriam says. “I listened to your duel on the wireless. You were ruthless, weren’t you? Against Krum.”

She lets that linger in the air.

Harry swallows. He opens up his mouth, then closes it.

Then: “I relapsed.”

He waits for her disappointment. Her screams and shouts.

When he finally looks at her, she’s smiling at him.

“Why are you smiling at me?” he demands.

“Thank you for telling me, Harry,” she says gently.

And Harry _ hates _that. He hates that she’s thanking him like he isn’t the world’s biggest disappointment, like he didn’t down potions to make himself feel just a little bit more than dead, barely alive because he couldn’t manage it himself. He reaches into his bag and slams the empty vials on the table between them.

“That was Draught of Peace. These are a few Calming Draughts,” Harry snarls. “And _ this _ was stolen Euphoria Elixir. Because I couldn’t _ feel _ anything. I didn’t _ feel real._”

“And do you feel real now, Harry?” Miriam asks gently. Harry looks at her, bewildered. “What do you feel?”

“I-I...I feel…” Harry stammers, unable and unsure of how to put it into words, all of the feelings. He doesn’t know what to name the monster in his chest, the pit in his belly. He doesn’t know what his grief has turned into until suddenly, he does. “I feel _ hurt _.”

Miriam leans forward. “Hurt. About what?”

“A-about...about _ Krum touching _ me without _ consent_,” Harry hisses.

“Okay. And?”

“About...about Tom _ leaving _me.”

There it is. He is..._ hurt _ . Tom _ hurt _ him, and Harry thinks he knows why Tom left him—not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much—but it’s only a reason. Not an excuse. Merlin, he is so hurt, he _ aches _ inside, all of the _ fucking _ time, because he needed Tom. He needed him and Tom _ left _him.

“What else?” Miriam says. It’s the last push.

“About...about the Dursleys. They were...they were supposed to be my family,” Harry whispers, voice cracking. And he looks off.

He remembers burnt fingertips and hollow stomachs and a cupboard under the stairs.

He remembers and it _ hurts_.

It has always hurt to remember.

“Harry, you are clinically depressed. You have a general anxiety disorder. You are an addict. But, most of all, you are _ hurting_,” Miriam says. She looks him in the eye. “You are in so much pain.”

Harry stands sharply, because he doesn’t want to look at her. He paces the edges of her office, refusing to look back at her. But, that doesn’t stop Miriam from speaking.

“Feeling hurt is important. It’s a valid feeling. It means that you’re human,” Miriam says.

And Harry lets out a disbelieving laugh. It’s by mistake, but he can’t help it.

_ Human_, she says.

Is that what this is about? Being human. Is that what humanity is about? Aching and hurting and being too tired to lift one’s head? Is it about feeling numb? Because that’s what Harry wants. He can’t remember a day in his life that he wasn’t _ hurting_, and all he can think about is how unfair this all is. All he can think about is how every day he bottles it all up inside, he keeps the shit done to him close to his chest and lets it sit.

Miriam is still speaking, “You have been hurt and harmed by so many people around you. You should be allowed to feel safe. With your relatives, with your boyfriend, in your _ home_, because Hogwarts is your home, isn’t it? Your first home. And yet, the violations built. And, so you are _ hurt_.”

All he does is let it eat him alive, and now, he can’t.

It’s been eating him alive for _ years _now.

“And I think out of everything that happened to you, it’s Tom Riddle that hurts the most, isn’t it?” Miriam asks. “Because you _ love _ him, don’t you? You love him because you are _human_. You hurt because you are _human_.”

He can’t _ do _it anymore.

He can’t. He can’t. He _ can’t _—

And then, finally, he explodes.

“THEN—I—DON’T—WANT—TO—BE—HUMAN!” Harry roars.

Harry nearly puts his fist through the portrait above Miriam’s desk. The Healer in the portrait yelps, and glares at Harry, but Harry’s already spinning around, tearing the books from her shelf, doing anything where he doesn’t need to stare at the glass bottles—his failure—empty on the tiny table between their chairs.

“I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANYMORE—”

And then Miriam speaks: “Oh, Harry, I think you do care. You care so much, you feel as though you might bleed out from the pain. You _ care_. You love him. You loved how he made you feel. And now...you can’t feel it alone. You _ think _you can’t feel it alone.”

Harry spins on her and stares at her, his words choking in his throat. Miriam stands up, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“You can feel it. How do you _ feel_, Harry?” Miriam demands. “Tell me. Tell me _ now _!”

“I’M ANGRY! I’M SO FUCKING ANGRY!”

“Good!” Miriam shouts back. She circles him, and he spins with her, keeping his eyes on her like he’s a cornered animal. “Tell me what about!”

“Krum _ touched _ me!” Harry snarls, full of fury. “Tom _ left _ me. And _ they _ starved me! They took from _ me! _ They took me and turned me into—everyone’s always _ taking _from me!”

And Miriam reaches for him, grabbing his hands. Stops him in his tracks. Harry’s shaking under her fingertips and Miriam looks him in the eye, taking a step closer to him. Harry doesn’t turn from her. He stares at her, stares at her, _ stares _until he freezes, and he is no longer afraid.

He hasn’t been afraid for a _ long _time.

But, he has been _ angry_.

“We have never discussed why I think you overuse these medications,” Miriam says firmly.

“Because I don’t want to feel,” Harry snaps.

Miriam shakes her head. “No. It’s much more specific than that. You don’t want to feel your _ rage_. Harry, you are more than angry. You are full of _ rage_, and you have never quite let yourself feel it. You are _ enraged_, aren’t you?”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

He staggers back, catches the back of his chair to keep himself balanced. He looks up at Miriam and she looks satisfied with herself.

Harry breathes heavily, shaking. He grabs at the back of his chair, using it to tether him to the earth. He looks up at her, breathless.

“I am _ so _ angry,” he whispers, voice trembling with the force of it. “I am _ so _fucking angry, Miriam.”

“Oh, I know, Harry,” Miriam murmurs, gently. “And you are _ allowed _to be angry.”

“I’m...allowed to be angry,” Harry repeats. “But...but, I’m angry all the time.”

“For others. Righteous anger. Because you’d like to save everyone because you felt like you couldn’t save _ yourself. _ But, Harry you can be _angry _for yourself,” Miriam says firmly. She stands to her feet and reaches over, pressing her hands on top of Harry’s. She leans forward, looks him in the eye. “You want to be numb because you don’t want to feel angry for yourself. You’re _ allowed _ to be angry. You are allowed to be selfish and brutal and angry and hurt. You’re allowed to be _ whole_. You don’t need _ anything _ to make you feel whole. You don’t need things that dampen you to make you more _ palatable _to the masses.”

“What?” Harry breathes.

“You think they won’t love you if they see your broken bits?” Miriam asks, voice hard. She spits the words at him, and yet, there is nothing violent about them at all. “They see them, Harry. They see the jagged edges of you, and your family _ loves _ you. It’s time that you love yourself too, because, Harry? You are _ remarkable _all on your own. Rage and all.”

“Rage and all,” he repeats.

“So, let it go, Harry. Let the numbness go and get _ angry._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]All recognizable dialogue is from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> This is my favorite chapter. That's all, lol.


	81. FRIDAY, 4:49PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is Tom's very best thing.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Say my name  
As every colour illuminates  
We are shining  
And we will never be afraid again  
Say my name  
As every colour illuminates  
We are shining  
And we will never be afraid again"
> 
> \- Spectrum, Florence + the Machine

Harry does _ not _want to be here.

It’s a Friday; he’s only had two classes, but the week had been an exhausting one of many ups and downs. He feels lighter now, after his session with Miriam, and it’s not the usual post-session high. It’s something deeper, and greater. He feels like something has been lifted off his very soul, and he smiles easier. He feels deeper. It’s nice, to not reign himself in, or at least, try to.

He feels even better now that he has weekly appointments with her. He hadn’t even felt bad about reverting back to weekly. Every Friday, starting next week, he’d be going to Miriam’s office to talk.

So, he doesn’t feel bad about complaining: “_Hermione_, I don’t want to be in the greenhouse. Can we go and play Exploding Snap?”

Ron looks just as annoyed and frustrated, but he’s trying to swallow it back. “I don’t know, mate, I think she needs to look for something for her...er, Herbology essay.”

“We have a Herbology essay?” Harry asks, suspiciously.

Hermione glares at Ron from the corner of her eye. “Great, Ronald,” she mutters under her breath. She looks up at Harry. “I’m writing an interdisciplinary essay for the Quibbler on the intersections of Herbology and Ancient Runes.”

Harry stares at her, flatly. “You’re a terrible liar, Mione.”

Hermione blanches. “Er, what?”

“So, what are we _ really _ doing here?” Harry demands, crossing his arms over his chest. He glances over at the spectacularly venomous plants and feels quite less than confident. None of them could say they have green wands. They’re not _ Neville_.

The plants could turn on them any second.

“They’re doing you a favor.”

Harry recognizes that voice. He hates to recognize that voice. He glares at Hermione and Ron.

“_Et tu, Brute?_” he hisses.

Hermione snorts. “You have _ not _read Julius Caesar, Harry,” she says shortly.

“That sounds like a disease,” Ron mutters. “Muggles are barmy.”

Hermione is, of course, correct, but Harry has heard Sirius say it enough to Remus in moments of drama.

Harry turns around, folding his arms over his chest. He glares at Tom and then, rolls his eyes when he sees that Tom has brought along a truncated version of his usual posse. Bellatrix shoves Tom a step forward, but that’s all. The Lestrange brothers look strangely anxious.

“So, you're finally here to talk?” Harry spits.

Tom’s eyes narrow. “You’re the one avoiding me. You said that you weren’t my business. _ I _was told that you requested this meeting,” Tom says, casting a warning look at Ron and Hermione.

Harry glares at them.

“Ah...Lavender says...closure was helpful for her?” Ron suggests.

Hermione looks oddly smug. “For once, this was _ Ron’s _idea.”

“That you went along with,” Harry hisses before he turns back to Tom. Tom is wearing a cloak like he’s going somewhere. “Are you going away?”

“I have an interview in London this weekend. I was going to stay over the weekend,” Tom says. “I leave soon.”

“Then, why are you _ here_?” Harry demands.

Tom stares at him for a long time, and Harry knows that this boy is an emotionless wall to everyone else, but Harry _ knows _him. He can see him. He sees how Tom’s eyes linger on the locket around Harry’s neck, how they linger on his face, like he’s memorizing Harry at that moment. Harry’s hands clench into fists.

“I think I need my locket back.”

Hermione gasps.

Harry’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Tom…” Bellatrix starts, but then, falls silent, shaking her head.

“We’re done. Aren’t we? We can’t work,” Tom says flatly. “I know what you think of me. You think I’m violent and arrogant.”

“I always knew that, Tom!” Harry snarls. He takes a step forward. “So, you’re saying we’re done?”

“_You _decided that,” Tom says, almost conversationally, like none of this matters to him in the slightest. “I suppose it falls in line with my plans. I'm graduating. I shouldn’t be held back.”

And _ that _simply pisses Harry off.

“_I _ hold _ you _ back?” Harry whispers, shaking. “I’m your _ equal _ in every _ fucking _way.”

Tom pauses. Then, “I suppose you can hold onto the locket until Sunday. Feel free to pass it along to Rodolphus or Rabastan tomorrow if you gather your senses.”

And then, he turns on his heel, preparing to leave. Bellatrix is at his side, as always, but even Rodolphus and Rabastan stare after him like they aren’t quite sure what just happened. Rabastan glances back at Harry, mouth open.

“I—Tom, you can’t be serious,” Rabastan sputters, but Tom continues like he hadn’t heard his friend.

“I know why you’re such a fucking asshole,” Harry hisses after him. “You’re _ afraid_.”

Tom stops.

“You don’t want to be alone, even if you pretend that you do. You’ve _ always _ been alone. Poor little orphan boy, burdened with power and genius. No one will _ ever _ understand. That’s the story you told yourself. Until you met _ me, _ ” Harry says, his voice shaking, and he ignores Hermione’s hands on his arms, on his wrists, attempting to tug him back. “I _ know _ you, to your bones, Tom Riddle, and you will _ never _ get rid of me. You’re _ always _ going to remember me, because I was your _ very _best thing.”

And then, Harry wrenches himself away from Hermione and rips the locket from around his neck. He throws it at Tom’s back, his spine rigid, his shoulders taut. Harry sees how bone-white Tom’s knuckles are, and he only tastes copper rage on his tongue.

Rodolphus gasps and lunges forward, barely catching the Locket by its chain.

Harry turns his back on them and closes his eyes as he hears the door to Greenhouse Six swing. Hermione makes a soft sound.

“Oh, Harry, I’m…” Hermione trails off, and then Ron’s arms are wrapping around Harry, and holding him tight.

Harry clings to Ron and Hermione, pressing his face into their robes, because though he doesn’t feel like crying, he does feel himself ache. Hermione whispers Arabic against his shoulder, full of the soft murmurs of ‘habibi’, and Ron is patting his back, until he isn’t.

Until he isn’t.

And then, Ron is grabbing hard on Harry’s shoulders and pushing him back. Harry stares up at him, wild-eyed and confused. Ron glances over Harry’s head, and back down to Hermione. Hermione’s lips part and she frowns hard. They look like they’re having a secret conversation to their own.

“What?” Harry whispers.

And finally, Hermione says, “Habibi, turn around.”

Harry turns and his breath catches when he sees Tom standing in the doorway to the greenhouse, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose.

And softly, Harry breathes, “You _ motherfucker_.”

He launches himself forward and brings his fist into Tom’s stomach. Tom grunts and stumbles back, but reaches out with one hand as Harry tries to hit him again. He snatches at Harry’s wrist and jerks him close, wrapping his arms around him.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck _ you_,” Harry chants, fighting against Tom’s arms even as he wants to sag into them. He pushes back and glares up at him. “I’m fucking angry at you!”

Tom’s eyes widen. “I...Harry,” he repeats.

Harry points one jutting finger up in Tom’s face. “Give me a reason. _ One _good reason, Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

“Because it’s you. It’s always been you. Since the chocolate frog,” Tom says firmly, looking down into Harry’s face. “The deeper, darker parts, too. And because, you are _ beautiful _in your rage.”

Harry falters, staring up at him. His lips part. He takes a step back, tugging himself out of Tom’s arms. He looks up at him, frowning.

“I’m still an addict. And I’m still angry,” Harry hisses. “You’re not going to _ fix _me.”

“I don’t want you _ fixed_,” Tom spits, shaking his head. “You are lovely and strong and, darling, you are everything that I have ever wanted. Rage and all.”

_ Rage and all. _

Harry lets out a breath. He lets his hands fall to his side, uselessly. “You will never do that to me again,” he whispers.

And then, he throws his arms around Tom’s neck and kisses him.


	82. SATURDAY, 12:14AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Tom recognize that it's going to take a bit of work.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "It's gonna take a bit of work  
Oh oh work  
Now that you're here  
Whoa oh work  
'Cause people come and go  
But I think you should know  
That I  
I think this will work"
> 
> -Work, Charlotte Day Wilson

They’re alone in Tom’s room. Nagini is off being babysat by Bellatrix, and so it’s just them. Harry sits on Tom’s desk, staring across the room at Tom. He's only wearing his pants and one of Tom's sweaters. He doesn't feel naked. Instead, he feels comfortable, satiated. He's well-fucked.

And it's time to talk.

Tom sits up against his headboard, tapping his fingers against his knee, dressed in soft jogging pants and an open button down. It's the most casual Harry has ever seen him. He hopes that he's the only one that has ever seen Tom like this. They’re just looking at one another, trying to figure the other out. Harry wonders who’ll start first. Tom is stubborn.

So is Harry.

“I wasn’t angry at _ you, _last Saturday. I was angry at Krum,” Tom says.

Harry purses his lips. “I know. But, if this is going to work, I’m going to need to know why you left me. Depending on your answer, we’ll go from there,” Harry says.

Tom stares at him like he doesn’t quite understand English, like he’s not used to being offered an ultimatum. Harry stares back, because he’s not going to budge, not on this. Tom folds his arms over his chest and leans back.

“I wasn’t going to let him get away with what he did to you,” Tom says coldly.

Harry levels him with a stare.

“He did it because of you. Partially because of you. Partially because he wanted to win. And partially because he wanted to feel powerful,” Harry says. Tom almost flinches. _ Almost_. Harry sighs, leaning forward, balancing on the edge of the desk. “What did you do to Karkaroff? And _ don’t _lie to me.”

Tom stares at him for a long time. Harry reaches for the black diary on Tom's desk, the diary with ‘TMR’ embossed on the corner in gold. He flips through it, revealing the list, the pages, the numbers. And he looks very pointedly at Tom, because he _ knows_. Maybe not all of it, but he _ knows _what Tom is doing isn’t legal. He knows there’s a reason that Tom occupies Knockturn Alley, a reason that Tom knows that Bagman is a gambler, a reason for Tom's illicit meetings with foreign Headmasters.

“I was a penniless orphan with pedigree. What does that mean in this new world where power means wealth?” Tom asks softly. He doesn't seem to be really talking to Harry. “Even the locket..._ my _locket was sold before my birth.”

Harry looks down at the locket that’s tucked into his shirt, safely around his neck again. He feels the cool metal and sighs. “What did you do?”

“No one would take me seriously. Not all of the talent, the ambition, or the intelligence in the world could make them take me seriously. Not until I could flash a little gold to hold their attention. Everyone is so _ small-minded_. As if gold means _ anything, _” Tom says, spitting out vitriol.

Harry’s eyes narrow. “_Enough _with the monologues—”

“What good is a little gold without a name?”

And this is where Harry stops, because this is about more than money. “A name?” Harry asks.

“You think _ the students _ here came up with the name, the _ Death Eaters_?” Tom spits, his lips curling back over his teeth. “No. That’s what the underbelly of Knockturn Alley called us. Because we _ eat _ Death. And they call me something _more, _because I always won. I run from Death. And I steal and I cheat and I _ fight _ to seize power. And the black market.”

Harry swallows hard as he regards his boyfriend.

“You sell items on the black market, then. That’s how you make your money. And you use your friends’ names to protect you,” Harry decides, and when Tom doesn’t disagree, he continues on. “What does Karkaroff have to do with it?”

“I stole Borgin’s client list. I procured what they wanted that he didn’t have, and made them loyal. He resented me for it. But, eventually, I had to move on. There were only so many illegal Dark artefacts that someone could want. There were only so many pureblood families with the money or want. Rosier had an idea to grow our profits. Gambling. And loan-sharking. Karkaroff couldn’t pay his loan,” Tom says softly.

Harry leans forward. “And you _ egged _him on, you idiot.”

“Harry, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think he’d hurt me. Right,” Harry says flatly. “That doesn’t explain why you _ left me _.”

Tom moves closer, sliding down to the edge of the bed, sitting on it, leaning forward like he’s going to reach across the space and take Harry’s hand. Harry doesn’t let him. Not just yet.

“I couldn’t let Krum go unpunished for what he did to you, Harry. You would’ve let him go,” Tom says firmly. “You would’ve let him go because you are _ far _too good. He should have paid with his life. I only let him live because of _ you _.”

And Harry can imagine Tom in all his righteous fury. He can imagine Tom Stunning Krum. He probably took Bellatrix with him, and the Lestranges too. They wouldn’t question why, only do Tom’s bidding, because that’s what they do. But, they would only be there to keep watch. Tom would want to do it himself.

It’s so easy for Harry to _ imagine_.

Harry sighs as he slides off the desk and gets closer, wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck, standing between Tom’s legs. He leans down, brushing his nose against Tom’s, slowly kisses him, licking into his mouth. He sighs as Tom’s hands land on his waist and squeeze tight. Then, Harry leans back.

“Thank you. For doing what you did,” Harry says. Tom begins to preen, and Harry can’t have that. He slides away from Tom, sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Tom. “But, you should’ve run it by me.”

Tom falters. “Why?” he demands.

“Because...you made my assault about _ you _ , and it wasn’t. It was about _ me. _ How dare you take _ my _ pain to justify _ your _ agenda?” Harry snarls, softly. He leans forward. “ _ Never _do that again. Do you hear me, Tom Riddle?”

Tom opens his mouth. “Harry, I—” he starts, going to kneel at Harry’s feet again.

“I’m not fucking finished. Also, I’m an addict,” Harry states, just as he had earlier. He says it proud and loud, because he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care who _ knows_, because he’s doing his damned best to be better. When Tom goes to open his mouth, Harry presses his fingers to that mouth and silences him. “And I’m angry at you. _ So _ angry. And I thought not being with you would ruin me, because I _ love _ you. But… even without you, I know I want to be alive. I want to be _ alive_, and that means I have to let myself feel. I don’t need the potions and the draughts.”

“You don’t,” Tom says softly against his fingers.

“And I don’t need your love either.”

Tom rears back like he’s been slapped.

And Harry feels _ strong_.

“I need to be healthy. I need my parents: Sirius and Remus. I need my friends. I need _ me_. But, I don’t _ need _ your love. So, if I have to deal without it, I will,” Harry says firmly. He takes Tom’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He pulls them closer together, presses their chests together. “So, you won’t do that to me again. Because if you do, I will _ leave _ you. I don’t _ need _you.”

“You don’t need me,” Tom repeats like it’s a marvel, like this never occurred to him. It’s a strange reminder of last Saturday night when he was kneeling at Harry’s feet, much like this, and as Harry stares down at him, he feels _ powerful_.

“You do things that I don’t like. That I don’t approve of,” Harry says. “But, I can’t change you. And I don’t think I want to.”

“Will you report me?” Tom trails off.

“I’m not going to report you,” Harry decides. He grabs Tom’s hands and slowly falls onto his back on the bed, tugging Tom up until he’s kneeling between Harry’s spread thighs. Harry hooks one leg around the back of Tom’s thighs and wraps his arms around Tom’s neck. “I think this is going to take a bit of work.”

“We’ll make it work,” Tom murmurs into the skin of his neck. He drags his tongue down the side of Harry’s neck, and Harry gasps, rolling his hips up.

He closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Last chapter until MONDAY! Next week will be the last week, just a head's up!


	83. MONDAY, 8:22AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Tom make their _official_ debut.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Keep watchin' me whip up  
Still be real and famous, yeah  
Dance with my dogs in the nighttime (woo, woo, woo, wroof)  
In the kitchen, wrist twistin' like it's stir fry (whip it)  
In the kitchen, wrist twistin' like it's stir fry (whip it)  
In the kitchen, wrist twistin' like it's stir fry (whip it)  
In the kitchen, wrist twistin' like it's stir fry (whip it)"
> 
> -Stir Fry, Migos

When Harry wakes up in the morning, he goes through his routine.

He isn’t alone in it this time.

He wakes up only because Ron shakes him awake—for once Ron is awake before him, and Harry grieves the fact that he can’t make fun of Ron’s _ stupid _morning face. They elbow one another as they try to brush their teeth in the same sink. Not because they have to, but only because it’s funny. When they make it downstairs, Hermione fixes Harry’s tie, and then, points out Ron’s toothpaste stain on his collar.

She does not charm it away.

Lavender takes care of that, not noticing the look Ron gives her as she chatters happily to Ginny. When they finally leave Gryffindor Tower, they pick Luna up at the shared platform on the fifth floor, where she’s come from the North Tower. Harry keeps his head held high, because he’s unashamed.

Harry Potter is an addict. Harry Potter is recovering addict.

Harry Potter is also best friend to Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley.

He is close with Ginny, Luna, and Lavender.

He’s captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

He’s co-Captain of the champion Hogwarts Duelling Team.

He’s the Duellist of the Year.

Harry Potter’s also Tom Riddle’s boyfriend.

They meet in the middle. The Defence Squad watches the Death Eaters warily, and vice versa. Harry’s lips twitch and he raises an eyebrow, nodding to Tom. Tom tilts his head in acknowledgement, his lips pressed into a thin line that Harry can easily recognize as a smile. Harry ignores everyone around them, staring, watching with bated breath.

“Good morning, darling,” Tom drawls.

“Good morning, killer,” Harry retorts.

Harry pretends not to hear Ginny whisper, “How _ morbid_.”

Tom snorts and tips his head in a bow, offering his hand. Harry takes it and turns to face the Great Hall. He laces their fingers together and squeezes tight.

And the pair are off.

“This is so…” Bellatrix mutters to herself, rolling her eyes.

“This is a lot,” Hermione mumbles, and then, promptly Bellatrix and Hermione exchange identical looks of disgust for having something in common.

Harry grins and ignores them both. He ignores the stares as they walk hand in hand into the Great Hall, chins lifted high. Even after a week, everyone still stares. Now, Harry’s sure that they’re staring because while a sporadic kiss at the end of a duel in victory is one thing, this is unmistakable. Tom Riddle has kissed a lot of people.

He’s _never _held hands with someone.

“How’d you sleep?” Harry asks, tilting his head closer to Tom.

“I didn’t. I had business last night,” Tom says carefully. He glances down at Harry like he’s measuring his reaction.

Harry looks up at him and very carefully pulls Tom’s arm over his shoulders, keeping his grip on Tom’s hand. He looks up at him, leaning into his side.

“And it went well?” he murmurs.

Tom inclines his head towards him. “_Very_,” he promises, something smug to the tilt of his mouth.

Harry’s lips curl into a tiny smile. “I’d like to hear that story.”

“Would you really?” Tom challenges.

“Yes. All the deeper, darker parts of it too,” Harry says as they finally reach the middle of the Great Hall. He moves to step towards the Gryffindor table, just as Tom jerks towards the Slytherin table, and they turn to face on another, sharply, hands dropping. Harry’s eyes narrow. “Where are you going?”

“Where are _ you _going?” Tom retorts.

“Of _ course_,” Hermione mutters to herself, though there’s something amused in her voice.

Harry glares back at the rest of Defence Squad and he pauses when he sees how easily they’ve mingled amongst the Death Eaters. He turns back to Tom, lifting his chin and folding his arms over his chest.

“Where are we going to sit?” Harry asks.

Tom snorts. “_I’m _not going to sit at the Gryffindor table.”

“Well, I’m not sitting at Slytherin with the slimy snakes!” Harry retorts.

Tom rolls his eyes. “Oh, that’s quite mature of you, Harry,” he says, dryly. He reaches forward, tugging Harry in even as Harry lifts his chin high in the air. Tom’s lips twitch in amusement and he leans down. Softly, he sings, “_Ha-rry_.”

Harry fights a smile of his own. “_To-om_,” he whispers back.

“Brat,” Tom murmurs just once before he presses a slow kiss to Harry’s lips.

Harry loses himself in it, looping one arm around Tom’s neck. He ignores the whoops of the more rambunctious Death Eaters—that being the Lestrange brothers—along with the Weasley siblings. Harry sighs into Tom’s mouth, tongue running along the seam of Tom’s lips.

“Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Harry pulls back with a soft, wet sound and he blinks, turning his gaze back towards the speaker. His eyes widen on the lightly disgusted expression of Severus Snape.

“Professor?” Harry starts.

“Keep your disgusting public displays of affection. Nobody wants to see the expression of your _ love_, Potter,” Snape snaps.

Harry can’t help himself. He snorts, burying his face in Tom’s shoulder.

“Professor!” Ron squawks. “There were two people participating in that kiss! Riddle is a Slytherin and _ he _kissed Harry!”

“Was he?” Snape asks blandly. He doesn’t allow Ron any further chance to argue, billowing down the middle aisle up to the faculty’s table.

Harry follows him with his eyes, gaze catching on Remus. Remus smirks. Harry turns back to Tom and looks up at him.

“Walk me to Defence?” he asks.

“Of course,” Tom says.

They part and Harry turns back to the rest of Defence Squad. Luna is distracted by something Rosier’s saying, but the rest of them are watching him. Hermione has such a soft look in her eyes and Ron just smiles. Ginny has a shit-eating grin. Lavender’s hands are over her mouth, like she’s keeping in a squeal. She lunges, grabbing him, tugging him to the Gryffindor table.

“Can I say...I cannot _believe _you’re dating Tom Riddle,” she hisses.

“What do you _ mean? _ We had _several _conversations about it,” Harry laughs.

Lavender shakes her head. “No...it’s just..._ wow, _Harry,” Lavender whispers as she pushes him down into his seat. She’s already sitting next to him, heaping toast and eggs onto both of their plates.

Harry laughs.

Harry usually goes through mornings alone.

He’s pretty happy that he doesn’t often feel the need to anymore.


	84. TUESDAY, 11:13AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry is interrogated.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I know you've been hurt by someone else  
I can tell by the way you carry yourself  
If you let me, here's what I'll do  
I'll take care of you  
I've loved and I've lost
> 
> I've asked about you and they told me things  
But my mind didn't change and I still feel the same  
What's a life with no fun? Please, don't be so ashamed  
I've had mine, you've had yours, we both know"
> 
> -Take Care, Drake & Rihanna

It’s a rare day of respite in early February in the Scottish highlands.

It’s still a brisk chill outside, but the sun is out and there’s no snow covering the courtyard. It’s relatively dry, and Harry is fine in his cloak, readily prepped by Remus’ _ very _strong Warming Charm. He sits on the window sill that leads into the open-air corridor, leaning back on his hands as he watches Luna and Ginny finish revising their essays for Hagrid’s Care class. Lavender is off gossiping the Patil twins and a Hufflepuff, and Hermione and Ron are snipping at one another, quite casually.

“—can ask him.”

“No _ you_.”

“No, _ you_—” and then, suddenly, Philip Blagdon and Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hufflepuffs, and Olive Hornby and Isobel MacDougal, Ravenclaws, are right in Harry’s sightline. They cling to one another, all staring at Harry in awe.

“Um...hello?” Harry starts awkwardly.

Finch-Fletchley pinches Blagdon in the side, but Blagdon only yelps. MacDougal looks watery-eyed, but like she’s forcing herself to be strong. She clears her throat and takes a step forward. Hermione seems to finally notice, jerking out of her conversation with Ron.

“Can we help you?” Hermione asks in short clipped words. She stands taller, her Prefect badge gleaming on her chest. Ron seems to straighten up, just as fast, when he notices how serious Hermione is.

“We just...we wanted to ask Potter something,” Hornby says uncertainly. “We just...er...were wondering…”

“We were wondering about the semantics of your and Riddle’s relationship,” Finch-Fletchley blurts out. “Are you acquaintances or…”

This is where he trails off.

Harry’s face burns and he turns to look at the rest of the Defence Squad. Ginny and Luna have paused. Ginny’s mouth widens into a grin.

“Oh, _ this _will be fun,” she drawls.

Luna giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “Yes, Harry. Do tell,” she teases, eyes far too wide and guileless to be true innocence.

Harry glares at them before he looks over at Lavender across the courtyard. Her gaze catches with his, and her eyes widen. Her nostrils flare and Harry knows that she’ll be there as soon as possible; Lavender is attracted to drama.

“Shoo, go away,” Hermione says, clapping her hands. “You don’t have to answer, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head, and mutters, “Um...he’s my boyfriend.”

MacDougal’s jaw drops.

It’s then that Harry remembers that each and every one of these four students is one of his boyfriend’s past _ acquaintances_. Merlin.

“You can’t be serious…” MacDougal whispers. “He _ does _that?”

“With me, he does?” Harry says, and he only realizes how offensive that is when both Blagdon and Finch-Fletchley glare at him something fierce. He groans, shaking his head. Harry flounders with his hands. “Look, he’s my _ boyfriend_, okay? It’s really that simple.”

“It’s not simple at all, actually!” Hornby says shrilly. “Riddle doesn’t _ date_.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he’s dating me,” Harry says, just a touch more pointed. Before Harry can further defend himself, Lavender swoops down to his side. She stands between them and Hermione slots into the space next to her, both of their arms folded over their chests.

“Are you questioning the validity of Tom and Harry’s love?” Lavender demands.

Ron snorts. “Merlin, Lav.”

“I don’t know if we’d call it that—” Harry starts.

Hornby huffs. “We _ all _ know that Tom Riddle doesn’t _ do _relationships. You know that too, Lavender,” she says it in such a way that no one can mistake that she’s talking about Lavender’s ill-fated encounter with Tom.

Harry still flinches every time he thinks about it.

“I think you should be a little kinder, Hornby,” Hermione says sharply. Hornby flinches.

“Tom Riddle and Harry Potter are _perfect _ for another,” Lavender declares. “It’s so _ obvious _.”

Harry rolls his eyes because he isn’t sure he agrees all of hte time.

“You hear that, mate? You two are _ perfect _for one another,” Ron teases, and Harry’s mouth twitches as Ron ribs him.

“When did this happen, then?” Finch-Fletchley asks.

MacDougal, ever the Ravenclaw, pauses. “Wait...are _ you _ the reason he broke up with all of us?” MacDougal demands. “That was in _ November_.”

Harry startles, because he really didn’t expect anyone to do the math that fast. He glances over at Ginny and Luna, but they won’t be of any help. They’re bursting over fits of giggles, staring at Harry and revelling in his misery.

“Er, look...I’m not sure if it’s any of your business,” Harry starts, but Lavender is just winding up.

“Their compatibility is incalculable. The chemistry is unmeasurable. You can’t be angry with something that’s practically written in the stars,” Lavender declares dramatically.

Hermione snorts.

“She’s laying it on a bit thick, isn’t she?” Ginny giggles.

Lavender is so riled up, she doesn’t seem to notice.

Finch-Fletchley opens his mouth to argue, but he lets out a soft squeak. Blagdon eyes track on something just behind Harry, and Hornby and MacDougal’s mouths shut with soft clicks. Harry goes to turn, when he feels a hand on his chin, gently guiding his face to the side.

He hums as Tom’s lips press against his, Tom’s other hand settling on his waist, squeezing tightly. Harry instinctively loops an arm around Tom’s neck, tugging him closer. Tom’s tongue swipes against his mouth, and Harry hums into it, surging forward, blindly leveraging one leg so that he’s straddling the sill and can get both hands on Tom’s jaw as he kisses him.

He’s a slow slide of mouths together until Hermione very pointedly clears her throat.

Harry sighs, pulling away, falling back against the stone window frame, staring up at Tom with a slow smile.

“Hello, darling,” Tom murmurs.

“Hello, killer,” Harry retorts.

“That’s still not cute,” Ginny adds.

Harry laughs, glancing over at Ginny. Rosier and Nott have joined them, and it seems like Zabini has finally caught a clue. He’s standing behind Ginny, arms wrapped around her waist, chin tucked over her shoulder.

“You’re not wrong,” Rabastan agrees from behind Tom. Even still, he winks at Harry.

Harry looks back at Tom, taking him in.

Tom Riddle really is a handsome bastard. Though he’s never in the proper Hogwarts robes, always electing for a well-tailored black Muggle suit with his Slytherin tie, he encompasses the perfect student. Not a hair out of place, the Head Boy badge pinned to his lapel. Harry wants to muss him up. Harry reaches forward, fingers trailing over Tom’s jaw. Tom steps closer, as close as he can get to Harry.

“Haven’t seen _ you _in a while,” Harry murmurs.

This isn't strictly true. He'd seen Tom _all night _and for a little bit in the morning, too.

“Now, that’s a categorical untruth,” Hermione mutters.

She seems to remember Harry sneaking back into Gryffindor Tower this morning, a little _too _perfectly.

Harry glares over at her.

Looking in her direction reminds him of his unwanted and unwarranted interrogators. He glances at the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs, who all stare wide-eyed and open-mouthed at Tom. Tom frowns as he slowly turns to look at them.

His brow furrows.

“And...you are?” he asks.

Harry knows Tom. He can sense that Tom is being purposely cruel. He jabs him in the side, hard enough that Harry knows it aches. Tom barely flinches.

MacDougal lets out a wretched sound.

“You are an _ arse_,” Harry hisses.

The corner of Tom’s mouth twitches. Harry swings his leg over, facing Tom entirely. Almost immediately, Tom slots himself between his legs, hands settling on his thighs.

“Can you two stop touching?” Bellatrix groans, but even as Harry watches her, he notices something kind in her eyes as she watches Tom. It’s gentle and soft.

She’s teasing, Harry realizes.

“No. Never,” Tom murmurs. Harry smiles up at him.

Harry hears the sounds of his friends gently ushering Tom’s ex-acquaintances away, but he keeps all of his attention on Tom.

“You should apologize to them, you know,” Harry says softly.

Tom scoffs. “Why?”

“Because it’s the good thing to do,” Harry insists.

“When have I been known to do the good thing?” Tom demands.

Harry pauses and gives him a meaningful look. He tugs him down, brushing his nose against Tom’s. “You should apologize,” he reiterates, “because _ I _want you to apologize.”

Tom stares down at him for a long time, rubbing his palms up and down Harry’s thighs through his trousers. Harry shifts forward, feels Tom pressed right up against the apex of his thighs, against his bulge. He shivers.

“Brat,” Tom whispers.

“Maybe,” Harry says with a smile. “But, I’m your brat, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” Tom purrs, brushing his lips along Harry's Adam's apple, over where the cold chain of the Slytherin locket presses into Harry's skin. He's trying to distract Harry.

“I might be,” Harry teases. His eyes harden just the tiniest bit. His fingers dig into Tom's side hard enough to make him jerk again, this time. “Now. Go _ apologize_.”


	85. WEDNESDAY, 11:37AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Harry and Tom go off to have a 'date'
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "And sex with me, so amazing  
All this hard work, no vacation  
Stay up off my Instagram, pure temptation  
Sex with me, sex with me, sex with me  
So amazing, so amazing, mmmm"
> 
> -Sex With Me, Rihanna

“Tom Riddle is _ such _a smug arsehole.”

“Consider you’re still with him and thus, shouldn’t get to complain about what is accepted as a general truth at this point,” Ginny points out.

Harry glares at her, shaking his head. “You just..._don’t _ get it, Ginny. _ Your _boyfriend isn’t a certifiable genius with a God complex.”

“Uh, thanks,” Zabini says, where he’s wrapped around Ginny. He’s doing remarkably well, Harry has to note, ignoring Ron’s pointed glares. “I think?”

“He just..._ ugh_,” Harry spits because he’s still frustrated after the day’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class. Sometimes, he thinks it’s a little funny that his boyfriend is his TA, and his godfather’s TA, at that. Today was not one of those days.

“Well, I mean, he wasn’t _ wrong_, Harry. We do need to find a way to secure Azkaban better,” Hermione says.

“But, keeping dementors in the meantime? Infringes on the rights of prisoners!” Harry declares. He knows that when he’d said it that he was right, and Remus had nodded along with him. He felt even more right when Remus had pulled him aside at the end and whispered, _ Your mother would be so proud_.

“True, but how else are we going to secure it? They all still have _ magic_,” Ron says.

“We need to figure out ways to dampen magical connections in prisons, then,” Harry declares.

Luna leans forward, intrigued. “How would that work though? What could conduct _ that _kind of magic sustainably over a period of time?”

This launches Hermione into a lecture on Ancient Runes that Luna actually engages with, and Harry should remind himself not to forget that Luna Lovegood _ is _a Ravenclaw.

As Harry sits on the windowsill, he glares across the courtyard at Tom Riddle, who is holding court amongst his Death Eaters.

“If you keep glaring at him like that, people will think you’ve broken up and then, he won’t be off-limits anymore,” Lavender chides.

Harry pauses. “Wait...we’re not broken up. He’s just _ wrong_,” he spits.

“Yes, well, _ you _ know that and _ I _ know that, but there are people here that would _kill_to be with Tom Riddle,” Lavender reminds him.

Harry’s frown deepens. “He’s really not all that great.”

Ginny grins. “That’s not what _ I’ve _heard. Do tell, Harry. Is he as good as Lavender said he was?”

Lavender flushes. “Do _ not _bring up my...association with Tom Riddle!” she squawks. Ginny cackles her amusement and Harry groans, shaking his head.

“Ginny, _ why_?” Ron demands.

Harry looks back at the Death Eaters and he looks around. Tom is gone.

“Where’d he—” Harry starts, and then an arm wraps around his middle, tugging him back until he’s almost hanging off the windowsill, held up purely by the fact that Tom is right behind him. “Oh, there _ you _are.”

“Hello to you too, Harry,” Tom drawls.

Harry jumps off the windowsill, standing at Tom’s side and he allows Tom to throw a careless arm around his shoulders.

“What do _ you _want?” Harry asks.

“Would you like to have lunch with me?” Tom asks.

Harry raises an eyebrow, leaning into Tom’s side. He actually kinda likes Tom’s arm around his shoulders, even if he only really tolerates it in private, amongst the rest of the Defence Squad and the Death Eaters. He looks up at him.

“In the kitchens?” he asks.

“No. The Room of Requirement,” Tom says. He doesn’t say it like it means much, just a suggestion.

But, Harry knows what the Room of Requirement means for _ them_.

His lips twitch. “Really?” he asks.

“Why not,” Tom says, too blasé.

Harry unravels from Tom and nods, taking one step back from the rest of the courtyard. Hermione looks up like she can sense his plans that she would _ not _approve of.

“Harry? Lunch?” she asks.

“I’m going to eat with Tom. Alone. Like a date,” Harry says, awkward and stilted. He looks over at the rest of the Death Eaters across the courtyard. He accidentally makes eye contact with Bellatrix and she very pointedly rolls her eyes like she knows exactly what Tom’s plan was.

“Well, what about Herbology?” Hermione asks.

“Just meet us in the Entrance Hall ten minutes before, mate. We’ll walk over together,” Ron says, forever loyal.

“Got it, mate,” Harry says and then he jumps up and grabs Tom’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Tom raises an eyebrow, looking down at their joined hands, but he doesn’t say anything else. “Okay, let’s go!”

Harry leads the way to the Room of Requirement as the person that lays claim to it. He suspects that Tom does some of his more illicit business dealings in the room he calls the Room of Hidden Things, and maybe, another place in the Castle that’s Unplottable, but he hasn’t quite gotten around to asking about it yet. It’s not that he’s _ afraid_, but it’s more like Harry isn’t sure if he _ needs _to know. If he wants to be burdened with that kind of information yet.

He thinks he’ll ask Miriam about it.

He paces in front of the empty stretch of wall on the eighth floor twice.

“Are you still angry about Defence?” Tom asks.

Harry pauses in his pacing before his third go. He glares at Tom and then, stops. “Well...you can’t help how stupid you are, can you? It’s your natural state.”

Tom looks thoroughly amused. “Your little mind can’t comprehend how right I am. You can’t help how self-righteous, _ you _are, I suppose.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “You really don’t want to have ‘lunch’ right now, do you?”

Very smoothly, Tom says, “Let’s agree to disagree for the moment, and postpone the debate.”

Harry laughs and he finishes his third go. The door phases into being in front of them and Harry grabs Tom’s wrist as he tugs him into the room.

Harry sighs as he collapses back against the door to the Room of Requirement. He looks past Tom, at the large bed that dominates the space. The Room is smaller now. A fire pleasantly flickers in the fireplace, a dozen throws creating a nest, in case Harry and Tom can’t make it to the bed. It’s intimate. Harry squirms, aching between his legs. He turns his gaze back to Tom, meeting those burgundy eyes that look even darker with lust.

“Come here,” Harry whispers, reaching forward, knotting his fingers in Tom’s shirt. Tom’s mouth twitches.

“Eager, aren’t you?” Tom murmurs even as he comes, doing as he’s told. And then, Tom kisses him, and Harry sighs into it. Tom’s mouth is warm but never soft, never kind. Tom kisses as he lives, thoroughly and with too much purpose.

He presses Harry against the door, hands big against Harry’s jaw before they slide down to Harry’s wrists, grabbing them and slowly pressing them above Harry’s head. Harry moans as he slots himself against Tom, feeling his thigh press against Tom’s half-hard cock. Just the feel of the hot press of flesh makes Harry’s cock harder. He whimpers into the kiss, turning his head.

“Tom…”

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Tom asks carefully. He’s deliberate with each word, like it means nothing to him, almost, and somehow, it makes it even more hot to Harry.

Harry wants Tom. But, he doesn’t want to fuck him. He grinds forward, letting out a soft sound again when Tom rocks his hips forward, pressing them tighter together.

Harry shakes his head.

“No?” Tom asks, and he sounds almost mocking now. “What do you want, Harry? You want something, don’t you?”

Harry’s mouth waters.

“I...I…” Harry says and he chokes on his words when Tom leans in and starts to kiss his neck, soft and lingering with just the slightest of nips at his skin. “We should, ah...fiddle.”

“Fiddle?” Tom teases, kissing Harry’s Adam’s apple. He gathers Harry’s wrists in one hand and he lowers his free hand, his long fingers tugging on Harry’s tie and, plucking at the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “I can fiddle you, Harry.”

“No...I…” Harry whispers and then, he gently tugs his wrists out of Tom’s grip. Tom looks at him surprised, and Harry admires the way that surprise morphs to lust as slowly Harry sinks to his knees, head falling back against the door. Tom hums.

“Ah,” Tom says.

Harry leans forward, pressing his cheek against Tom’s thigh, his nose nuzzling against Tom’s crotch. He looks up at him and whispers, “Maybe, I want to...fiddle _you_.”

Tom pauses and then lets out a slow breath.

“You want to suck my cock, Harry?” Tom murmurs gently, running his fingers through Harry’s hair, scratching at Harry’s scalp.

Harry shivers, his breath fanning over Tom’s bulge and he kisses at it gently, nose trailing along the zipper there as he runs his hands up Tom’s thighs. “Maybe,” he allows.

Tom’s fingers tighten in Harry’s hair and he tugs once, making Harry gasp out.

“Now, now, you’re usually much more mouthy than that. Answer me properly,” Tom demands. “Do you want to suck my cock, Harry?”

And Harry knows, he won’t be allowed to get away with not answering. Tom is going to _ make _him answer. So, he decides not to prolong it. He looks up at Tom and nods, slowly.

“Yes, I want to suck your cock,” he whispers, almost like it’s something forbidden, like it’s a secret, like they’re not in the Room of Requirement, all alone.

Tom pauses for just a moment and then, he’s gone in the next second. Harry lurches forward, holding out a hand to steady himself after Tom’s sudden disappearance. He squawks, and only calms himself when he sees that Tom has only gone as far as the bed. He sits on the edge and then he spreads his legs, pointing at the space between his feet.

“Kneel here,” Tom instructs.

“I’m not a dog,” Harry snaps because he can’t help it.

Tom’s mouth curves, amused. “No. You are not. But, you _ are _a brat that likes to be told what to do, aren’t you?” he challenges.

Harry feels the heat in his cheeks, but he stands to his feet and holds his chin high, anyway. He tries to be graceful as he kneels at Tom’s feet, but he only feels awkward. He swallows, blushing even harder, keeping his gaze on the ground until he feels two fingers at his chin, guiding his stare back up so that he makes eye contact with Tom.

“Look at me,” Tom murmurs gently. His fingers drag over Harry’s lips, long fingers dipping into his mouth and pressing down hard enough on his tongue to make Harry gag. “You are _ beautiful _.”

And Harry _ revels _ in that. He smiles around Tom’s fingers and takes them deeper, deeper, _ deeper _until he gags even harder, drool sliding from the corners of his mouth, down his chin. Tom groans like it’s his cock in Harry’s mouth and he lifts his hips, waving his wand to assist in his dishevelment, and his magic slides down his well-tailored trousers, revealing his pants.

Harry has never taken the time to look at Tom Riddle’s pants.

They’re expensive-looking, well-woven cotton. They’re not silk because Tom would think that’s tacky. Harry leans forward between Tom’s thighs and presses his mouth to the end of his pants, where his pants end and there’s just skin. Tom isn’t hairless, either. Harry didn’t really pay much attention to that, but he likes the faint dusting of hair at his thighs. Harry’s breath catches as he rubs his face there, sighing there.

“Harry,” Tom coaxes, lifting his hips just a bit.

Saliva pools in Harry’s mouth and he moans softly as he grabs Tom’s wand and Vanishes them. He tosses the wand farther up the bed, ignoring Tom’s indignation in favor of just _ staring_.

Tom has a very good looking cock.

Long, thick, with a prominent vein running up the underside. It’s not just good looking. Harry would hazard to say it’s pretty, though he’d never say it aloud. Tom doesn’t need the ego boost.

Harry looks up at him and keens in the back of his throat as he presses the heel of his palm down on his erection, rocking up into the friction. Tom’s eyelids droop with lust as he stares at Harry and then he lets one hand fall into Harry’s hair. He pets Harry’s hair and then, starts to guide him forward.

“I’ve never done this before,” Harry says. “Be patient with me.”

And even as he says it, he dives in, pulling his lips over his teeth and wrapping his mouth around the head of Tom’s cock. Tom groans as Harry begins to bob his head. Saliva pools even more and Harry groans, rubbing himself off the slick sounds of his mouth on Tom’s cock. Tom’s cock is heavy on his tongue, full enough to make Harry’s jaw ache and he _ likes _that.

He likes sucking Tom’s cock.

He looks up at him, and Tom holds himself up with one hand, the other hand moving Harry’s head, back and forth, smoothly, just like he likes.

_ (How many people have done this for you? Is it good? Do you like it?) _

Harry tries to push the thoughts from his head, because Tom...Tom has _ much _more experience than him. Tom has probably had countless people on their knees for him.

_ (But, he never looked at them like that, did he?) _

And Tom _ is _looking at him. Tom looks at Harry like Harry has the answers to all of the universe’s questions. Tom rocks his hips up, driving his cock deeper into Harry’s mouth, groaning softly, murmuring Harry’s name so softly. It makes Harry even harder, makes his cock twitch and spurt pre-cum in his pants.

The first time Tom thrusts hard enough to make Harry gag, Harry thinks it’s a mistake. His eyes water and he chokes hard, throat constricting around the head of Tom’s cock. And then, he looks up at Tom, and there’s something sly to Tom’s eyes.

The second time, Harry know it’s not a mistake and he moans, moving forward, fucking his throat on Tom’s cock in an effort to meet Tom’s efforts. Tom groans as he takes it for permission and he steadily starts to thrust down Harry’s throat, making Harry gag hard, spit sliding down his chin, wetting the collar of Harry’s shirt and he whimpers, lifting his hand up to weigh Tom’s balls in his hand.

“I’m going to cum down your throat, Harry,” Tom says, and the only way Harry can tell that he’s telling the truth is that he sounds slightly rougher than usual. “And you’ll swallow, won’t you?”

Harry tries his best to nod as Tom never stops fucking his throat. Tom slides even more forward and knots both hands into Harry’s hair, thrusting hard and steady. Harry gags as Tom pumps once, twice, and then, he cums down Harry’s throat. It’s bitter and unfamiliar, but it certainly isn’t the most unpleasant thing that Harry has ever tasted.

Harry falls back as Tom groans, leaning back, and Harry gasps for air, jaw aching.

“Oh...did you like that?” he asks, and his eyes widen in surprise at how hoarse his voice is.

Tom’s eyes are still burning and he grabs Harry and drags him up to straddle his lap, making quick work of his zipper before his hand disappears into Harry’s pants. He wraps his long, talented fingers around Harry’s cock and Harry groans.

“Did I _ like _that?” Tom snarls into Harry’s neck, wet and hoarse.

“It was...it was my first time...not much...skill,” Harry admits, panting as Tom jerks him off, hard and fast.

“You well make up for it with _ enthusiasm_,” Tom promises. “Now, cum.”

And as always, when Tom demands something, he gets it. Harry cries out, cumming all over Tom’s hand. He collapses like a marionette in Tom’s lap, head falling against Tom’s collarbone and his chest heaves, shirt sticking to his sweaty skin. Tom grabs him by the hair and wrenches his head back, kissing him, filthily before he pulls back.

“Fuck, we’re so gross,” Harry groans in distaste, looking himself up and down.

“We’re also magic,” Tom says dryly as he gently rolls Harry off his lap onto the bed. He reaches back for his wand.

“I’m not good at Cleaning spells,” Harry admits.

Tom rolls his eyes and waves his wand. Suddenly, Harry feels like his clothes are freshly laundered and he looks down. Even his pants, recently covered in ejaculate, are fresh again, like the house-elves have just done them.

“I’m good at all spells,” Tom says without a hint of humility.

Harry rolls his eyes and watches as Tom waves his wand with his non-dominant hand again, Vanishing Harry’s cum from his right hand. “Yeah, yeah. Well, go team,” he sighs, too fucked out to really move. He pats himself for his wand, pulls it from that weird inner pocket that Remus had sewn into his shirt but kept hidden.

“I’m sorry to say that I can’t do anything about your hair. You always look well-fucked anyway,” Tom says, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“Well, you always make sure that I _ am _well-fucked. Ugh, I’m tired. And hungry,” Harry sighs. As he speaks, a plate of sandwiches appear on the bedspread next to him, and he brightens. “Ah, I love magic.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Do you have time for lunch?” he asks.

Even as he speaks, Harry’s shoving half of a sandwich into his mouth. Harry chokes on the roast beef and crust and waves his wand with a wandless, _ Tempus_. He chokes and then swallows painfully.

“_Fuck _me, I have Herbology,” he moans. For good measure, he grabs another half of a sandwich and then crawls across the bed, ignoring the crumbs he leaves in his wake. He kisses Tom hastily. “Okay, bye, I’ll see you later.”

Tom looks rather charmed by him. He tries his very best to hide it behind an impassive mask, but Harry _ knows _him. “Goodbye, brat.”

Harry laughs as he rolls off the bed and runs, grabbing his outer robes and his bag. He doesn’t stop running until he meets the sixth year half of Defence Squad in the Entrance Hall as previously agreed. Hermione looks tense, and immediately relaxes when she sees Harry.

“You’re very nearly late!” Hermione squawks. “What were you doing, habibi?”

He very carefully does not say: _ Sucking Tom’s dick _.

“I was—” and then he stops, because he sounds like he’s been sucking Tom’s dick.

Hermione’s eyes widen. “Harry Potter!”

Harry shoves the second half of his sandwich in his mouth so he doesn’t have to answer. He looks to Lavender and Ron for help, but Lavender’s lips pull into a smug grin. Ron’s ears are red. Harry rolls his eyes and swallows his sandwich. Lavender leans forward, conspiratorially.

“You’ve got a little something…” Lavender says, miming something at the corner of her mouth.

Harry’s eyes widen and he forgets himself as he rasps, “That fucking—”

And Lavender is grinning.

Hermione shakes her head, disapprovingly.

“Mate,” Ron says through snorts.

“Oh, you _ prats_,” Harry says, hoarsely. “You’re a bunch of prats, you know that?”

But, even he can’t stop laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Longest chapter in a while is mostly a blowjob. This is my design.


	86. FRIDAY, 6:53PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, guess who's coming to dinner?
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Welcome to the jungle  
Are you gonna dance with me  
Welcome to the jungle  
You got to close your eyes and see  
Welcome to the jungle  
Are you gonna dance with me  
Well, hold on, well, hold on"
> 
> -Jungle, Tash Sultana

Harry pretends not to notice Sirius and Remus’ bemusement as he dances through the sitting room towards the dining table, straightening up everything from the books of the bookshelves to the placemats, to the chairs.

“What time is dinner again? It’s at seven, right?” Harry asks again for the third time.

Sirius looks over at him again, raising an eyebrow as he puts down his Muggle magazine, GQ. “Yes. As it always is.” He flips through to the next page of the frozen glossy photo spread. “Are you alright, Harry?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Harry asks as he goes to the cupboard and starts to pull down plates and cups.

“You seem...busy,” Remus says, adding his two Knuts.

Harry pauses as he squeezes a glass. Slowly, he turns to face his godparents. “I...invited someone to dinner,” he mutters. He can’t quite make eye contact with either one of them. He takes the glasses and plates and begins to set the table.

“Oh, who is it? Hermione?” Sirius asks, pleasantly.

“Harry, you don’t have to set the table—” Remus begins.

Harry turns to face them, expression set sternly. “No, it’s not Hermione, and I’m setting the table because I want to, because I’m nervous, not because I have to,” he says, shortly. He winces when he sees the surprise on both of their faces and then, he takes a deep breath. “Okay. It’s my boyfriend. Tom. He’s, er, coming.”

Sirius’ expression turns to stone. Remus grows suspiciously quiet.

It is no secret that neither Sirius nor Remus really care for Tom as Harry’s boyfriend. Sirius is angry because Tom supposedly abandoned him after Harry told him about his assault and Harry hasn’t told him what Tom was _ actually _up to. Remus has been strangely cold though Tom refuses to acknowledge it at all, really.

“Are you serious?” Sirius demands.

“No, you are,” Harry says, hiccuping a nervous laugh.

Remus rolls his eyes. “Please, no serious-Sirius jokes during your godfather’s _ trying _time,” Remus says, almost teasing. He leans forward, dragging his fingers over his cheeks before rubbing at his chin. “You’re allowed to have anyone you want over for dinner, Harry. You know that. There’s no need to be nervous.”

Sirius squawks. “But, _ Riddle_—”

“Is my boyfriend,” Harry finishes. “He’s my boyfriend, so can you...just be cool?”

Sirius seems to take even greater offense to _ that _than anything.

“Of course I can be cool! I’m cool!” he insists.

Remus snorts. “Are you really?”

Sirius pouts as he falls back into the couch and Harry’s lips twitch because he really can’t help himself. He folds his arms over his chest and sighs, running his fingers through his hair.

“I just...I really want you to like him, Sirius. He wants you to like him too,” Harry says.

He’s practically lying about that last bit. He doesn’t think Tom gives a single shit as to whether Sirius likes him, but Harry cares. Harry wants them all to be okay. He wants to be a normal boy with a normal-kinda-sorta-kingpin boyfriend. He doesn’t want Viktor Krum or his addiction’s shadows to constantly be haunting him.

“We’ll give him a chance,” Remus says. Sirius sputters, and Remus repeats, his voice just a little harder. “We _ will _give him a chance, won’t we, Sirius?”

Sirius sighs. “Ugh, _ yes_,” he drawls.

Harry grins. “Good.” He finishes setting up the table just in time for Dobby to send piping hot shepherd’s pie with an extra helping of greens on the side. A large jug of pumpkin juice and a smaller one of water appears next to the serving ladles.

Almost—and most likely—by magic, there’s a knock at the door.

“At least he’s on time,” Sirius mutters.

“It’s his best feature,” Harry says.

This is also not true. Tom’s best feature is definitely his face. His worst is his fucking attitude—particularly the one that had appeared when Harry had even requested that he come to dinner in the first place.

Harry moves towards the door, but Sirius darts forward, wrenching the door open. Harry sighs, rolling his eyes as Sirius stands up straighter, puffing out his chest like Tom doesn’t still have some height on him. At least they’re closer in height than Harry and Tom.

“Mr. Black, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Tom says, affecting one of his most charming smiles.

Harry watches as Sirius is _ nearly _fooled before Sirius mutters out, “I’m sure it is. Inside, Riddle.”

Tom enters as if he doesn’t sense any of Sirius’ near palpable disdain. He smiles at Remus and Remus nods back with a wane smile.

“Hello, Tom.”

“Professor,” Tom says, as he moves deeper into the space. He looks around, categorizing everything, probably memorizing all of it for nefarious purposes. He pauses when he gets to Harry and his gaze softens. “_ Ha-rry _.”

“To-om,” Harry whispers, just as soft. He leans up, kisses him softly, keeps it easy for the benefit of his godfathers. When he pulls back, he can’t help but smile. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Tom says like he hadn’t fought tooth and nail against it.

Harry snorts and shoves at him playfully before he drags him over to the table, pushing him down in the seat next to his usual one. He glares at Sirius and Remus when they don’t move fast enough for him, and they both seem to startle out of whatever weird trance their in to join Harry and Tom at the table.

“Well, Tom, I hope you like shepherd’s pie,” Remus says as cheerfully as he can. He goes next and then plates Sirius’ food.

Tom takes the ladle and helps himself to the food, pushes the pumpkin juice pitcher towards Harry because he knows Harry likes it.

Sirius presses a false smile on his face. “We don’t particularly care if you don’t,” Sirius says.

“Ignore him,” Harry bites out, glaring across the table at Sirius before he starts to make his plate. He turns to face Tom and leans in. “You had an interview today. How did it go?”

Tom quirks an eyebrow because Harry already asked him this when he’d demanded his presence at dinner, but he answers dutifully, “It went well. Scrimgeour tried his very best to get me to sign a contract on sight. He’s afraid that I’ll be poached by MACUSA.”

“Scrimgeour? The Head Auror?” Sirius demands. “_You’re _going to be an Auror. Aurors don’t use Dark magic.”

“Not strictly true,” Remus amends. “Hitwizards do. I do commend you, Tom, on your offers. I know that the Headmaster is quite proud of you. Almost like you’re his own.”

Tom’s nose wrinkles at that. “Yes, well, the old man is attached, isn’t he?” he asks as he shakes his head, beginning to eat his own food.

But, Harry knows better. His lips twitch.

“So are you, aren’t you?” Harry asks. Tom’s nose wrinkles harder. “You _ are_. Are you going _ soft_, Tom?”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Brat—”

“You’re close with Dumbledore, then? How did something like that happen?” Sirius prods. He pauses. “You’re close with a number of people with social standing, aren’t you?”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Sirius.”

“I’m just trying to get to know him better. After all, he’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” Sirius retorts. He glares across the table as he shovels more shepherd’s pie into his mouth. “Not that he was much of one for the past few weeks, eh?”

Tom sips from his glass of water and then leans forward, making deliberate eye contact with Sirius.

“Professor Dumbledore fetched me from the orphanage that I was at. He handed my letter personally. Harry and I have a lot of things in common. Childhood-wise,” Tom says very quietly and sharply. Then, he leans back in his chair and turns back to Harry, completely dismissing Sirius. “How was your appointment?”

Sirius makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, choking. He looks from Remus to Tom to Harry to Remus again. Remus shakes his head at him.

“What appointment?” Remus asks, like he’s trying to disguise it all. “You mean his meeting with me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says, shaking his head. He waves his hand. “Tom already knows about Miriam. And it was a good one. I had a few cravings yesterday, but I was with Ron and Hermione and I focused on making Quidditch plays for when practices start up again. I told her, and she said it was what she expected. I’m good.”

Tom nods once. “Good.”

It’s the end of the conversation and Harry beams at that. He looks over at Remus and Sirius because they _ have _to see how good Tom handled that one. They have to realize that Harry doesn’t tell just anyone about his childhood and about his addiction and about Miriam.

“Ah, Harry…anything else you want to share about...your appointment with Miriam?” Remus asks. He pauses and shakes his head. He ignores Sirius’ violent hushing. “You don’t have to, of course.”

“You don’t have to do a damn thing you don’t want to do,” Sirius says, voice hard.

_ (Harry still hasn’t asked how or why Sirius knew exactly what to say. He doesn’t think he ever will.) _

Harry glances over at Tom. Tom pauses once, lifting the fork to his mouth before he continues. He’s clearly listening. Harry sighs.

“I’m fine. Bruises are all cleared up. From Krum, by the way,” Harry says, adding for everyone’s benefit, because it’s stupid to pretend that either party is in the dark.

“Oh. He knows,” Sirius says stupidly.

“Of course, he knows,” Harry chides, rolling his eyes. He reaches for his locket, almost nervously, running his fingers over the gold chain before he lets one hand drop uselessly into his lap. He tries to pretend that he’s fine, that he’s not nervous even _ thinking _about Krum, but all he can think about is white sheets and Muggle electronica and—

And then a hand settles over his, lacing fingers together.

Harry’s lips part and he looks up, sharply. Tom doesn’t look at him, but he squeezes tighter. Harry looks down at his plate, mouth pulling into a tiny smile.

“Well...I’m glad that your support system is big and good,” Remus says, his voice soft and proud and gentle. He leans forward. “Have you heard anything?”

“I have,” Harry says slowly. Tom’s hand tightens on his. “I wrote to Fleur. To check-in. She says that he can’t quite hold a wand anymore. And they’re not sure about his ability to conduct magic. Something about nerve damage.”

“That’s...well, good riddance to him,” Sirius snarls. “I’d like to personally thank whoever did that to him, because I sure as hell would’ve done the same.”

Harry holds his breath.

Very slowly, Tom looks up and says, “Unnecessary.”

Remus drops his fork. It clatters onto the table. Sirius stills.

“What?” he breathes.

Tom doesn’t say anything, simply turning back to Harry. Harry narrows his eyes at Tom.

“We’ll need to discuss what you’ll be doing next year with the duelling team,” Tom says. “You’re the captain.”

“Am I?” Harry drawls.

“You’ll need to host try-outs.”

Harry shakes his head. “Are we so desperate for members, then?” Harry asks.

“One must build a healthy next generation. Don’t worry if you don’t think you can fill my shoes. So few can,” Tom teases. His mouth twitches, but it’s the only thing that shows his clear amusement.

Harry burbles with laughter. “You’re an _ arsehole_.”

Sirius and Remus haven’t started eating again. Sirius stammers.

“I...well...you’re alright then, Riddle,” Sirius finally says.

Remus looks torn, paler than pale.

Tom glances back at Sirius, his mouth pulling into an even wider smile. It’s cold and calculating and Harry wonders if that’s the kind of smile he gave Krum when he destroyed him.

And softly and lilting and oh, so beautiful, Tom asks, “Aren’t I?”


	87. SATURDAY, 12:42PM, 10 minutes before Dhuhr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, the miseducation begins.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "I roll out with no cash on me  
Calm now with no mash on me  
Stay away from these ashy youts  
'Fore they come around and get ash on me  
That's five thousand capacity  
Five thousand capacity  
Then spread that over the UK  
And then add it up and get back to me  
You pussios are not bad for me  
Mad man, they go mad for me  
Who the fuck went an' gassed you up  
Like you're good enough to be clashin' me?  
Oh, please stop harrassin' me  
Charge me up and put gas in me  
Them likkle fish want to try ting  
Oh, man, the audacity"
> 
> -Audacity, Stormzy

“Professor Vector is interested in working on my tarot card idea,” Lavender supplies as she bites the end of her quill as she scrawls down possible answers to her problem set. She sits back and frowns. “Is that right?”

Hermione leans over the table and glances down. She only needs to look at it for a second. “No. Also...that’s a 0.”

“Is it really?” Lavender groans. “I thought it was just a funny-looking 8. _ Fuck_.”

She crumples her scratch paper and pulls out fresh parchment to work on.

Hermione can’t help her fond smile.

She catches her. _ No, _ she tells herself. _ Do not smile_.

She closes her eyes and focuses on anything that isn’t this silly girl in front of her.

“I’ll be back. I need to grab a book,” Hermione says. She jerks out of her seat, moves jerkily towards the nearest bookshelf. She’s sitting in the Herbology section, which isn’t particularly helpful at the moment, but Hermione has never been averse to some extracurricular reading.

She pulls down _ Magical Water Plants of the Highland Lochs _ and _ Flesh-Eating Trees of the World _because they look fun. Because she can’t help herself, she glances back at the table. Lavender is frowning down at her work again. Hermione looks away.

“—heard she’s back. For good, now.”

“That’s...have to work hard...catch up.”

“Yeah, she does.”

Hermione briefly wonders what the two Slytherins down the aisle are talking about. She thinks that Lavender would be interested in the gossip, but she pushes it out of her mind and just grabs a few other books at random, because really, she shouldn’t be thinking at all about what Lavender would find interesting. That is logical.

So, instead, when she joins Lavender again, Hermione is logic again. She is controlled.

Lavender has set aside her Arithmancy, instead having pulled out her tarot cards again. She spreads them on the table in front of her. They’re really lovely cards, Hermione acknowledges. They looked old and hand-painted like they’re inherited.

“Professor Trelawney let me have these,” Lavender says. She looks up at Hermione, her mouth tilted into a slow smile. “What do you want for _ your _future, Hermione Granger?”

“Whatever it is, I doubt you’ll find it in those cards,” Hermione retorts.

Lavender rolls her eyes. “Use your _ imagination_, Hermione. Just because you haven’t found it in a book, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Hermione leans forward, balancing her cheek in her hand. “Prove it.”

So, Lavender begins to speak.

She really is quite smart. Hermione had never really thought much of Lavender Brown before she got to know her. She mostly thought that she wasn’t _ smart_. But, Lavender _ is _smart. She’s not a genius, for sure. But, she’s smart. She’s also just a little naive and fanciful and boy-crazy, but that’s the norm, isn’t it? For girls, their age.

It’s supposed to be the norm.

_ (Hermione Granger is not the norm_.)

Hermione sits back in her seat.

She can’t help it as she presses her thighs together, hands folded between them and she leans forward. She tries to listen—mostly does, even forms a list of counterpoints—but her gaze wanders. Across her curls, her chin, her eyes, her lips. Her hands. Lavender lays her hands over tarot cards, spreading them over the major arcana.

“But, that’s not real. Magic needs to be conducted,” she hears herself say from down a long tunnel.

“You know just as well that’s not true,” Lavender counters—sometimes, Hermione thinks she should’ve been a Ravenclaw, she’s not dumb, no, not at all—and she wags a finger. “It’s a proven fact that you can imbue magic in items.”

“Yes, theoretically, you could have magical tarot cards. But, how does that ensure a _ future_?” Hermione asks.

“That’s where Arithmancy comes in!” Lavender insists. “Paint the numbers on and do equations! It’s about the spread, Hermione! See, I told you. Use your _ imagination _.”

Before Hermione can counter, they both hear the familiar chatter of Defence Squad. Hermione lets an easy smile spread across her face as she turns around and sees three of Defence Squad join them, all dressed in crimson and Quidditch leathers.

“Hello!” Lavender says, waving happily.

Ron _ grins._ Hermione feels her mood sour just the _tiniest _bit. She turns her gaze back to Ginny and Harry. She nods.

“Habibi and habibti,” Hermione says, using masculine and feminine to differentiate. Harry grins over at her.

“Mione,” he says, so warmly.

She’s so proud of him. She doesn’t think she knows how to really tell him how proud of him she is. She has seen him at his very worst, and he has risen from the ashes so many times. There is no one braver than him, she thinks. There is no one in the world like Harry Potter.

“Come on, you two, lunchtime,” Ron calls. He leans on the back of Hermione’s chair. Hermione can feel the heat of him, and she thinks that if she tries hard enough, it might one day mean something more to her than just warmth.

She sighs, packing up her things. “We’ll continue this later, Lavender?” Hermione asks, and she tries to ignore the hopefulness in her statement. She can’t quite do it, not with the way her mouth curves into a gentle smile as she watches the other girl.

“Yeah, I don’t see why not. After all, the cards are going to tell me how to fix the _ tragic _state of your love life,” Lavender teases.

Hermione’s small bit of joy falls away.

“Shouldn’t you mend yours first?” she retorts.

Lavender snorts derisively as she packs her things and looks up at Harry. “How was Quidditch practice?”

“Perfectly fine.”

“_No_,” Ron groans, shaking his head. “We were _ so _rusty. I’m glad everyone else is rusty too because we’d fall apart during a match.”

Ginny’s eyes widen and Hermione blocks it out as the siblings begin to bicker about practice. She packs all of her books, cradles the ones that won’t fit into her satchel. She stands up and follows them out as she juggles her books, her bag, and her watch.

“Alright there, Hermione?” Harry asks.

She glances at her watch.

It’s dhuhr.

“_Allāhu akbar._” She says it so softly, so quietly, she’s not sure she says it at all. She isn’t sure if it’s habit—she doesn’t normally remember salat, she’s never been good at remembering, her mum always reminded her, not that they'd ever been super committed to praying, but sometimes, her mum fell into the habit again—but today she says it.

“What was that?” Harry asks, distracted.

Hermione pauses and shakes her head. “Nothing, habibi,” she says. “Here, take some of my—”

And then, at least three of her books are swatted out of her grip.

“Hey!” Ginny snarls, yanking herself out from her little tiff with her brother. “What the _ fuck _was that for?”

“Uh, sorry,” Crabbe says. He sounds too stupid to have done it on purpose, but the cruel glint in his eyes says that he was at least commanded to do it.

“Watch yourself,” Ron barks, pulling his wand.

Hermione glares at the ground as she and Harry bend over to grab her books, and she looks up, holding her chin up.

Draco Malfoy has always been tall and thin and pale, wraith-like in the sort of way that’s like the opposite of a dementor. He’s pointy and jagged like a skinny knife, the kind that you hide away until the last moment. His thin mouth is tilted into a small smile.

“Watch where you’re going, Granger,” he says loftily before he swans further into the library, without a single glance over at the rest of Defence Squad.

“What the fuck?” Ginny grumbles.

Harry looks considering. “He didn’t even say anything to me.”

“Jealous?” Lavender teases, attempting some levity.

Harry rolls his eyes as he juggles Hermione’s books and they close ranks around him, Hermione on his right like she always is.

“No. It’s just...he used to always start something with me,” Harry says. “I think he’s jealous.”

“Well, now you’re dating Riddle. He probably doesn’t want to die,” Ron suggests.

Harry snorts and shakes his head. Hermione nods because that makes sense. Sometimes, Ron makes sense. Sometimes, he’s the only one that ever makes sense, because he’s unchanging and solid and unshakeable. She’s the logic of the trio and he’s the anchor. She should look to the anchor even if all she wants to do sometimes is _ fly, fly, fly awa— _

“Have you all done your homework?” Hermione asks.

She’s met with a crash of groans.

“Hermione, it’s _ Friday_,” Ginny protests. She grins, getting distracted when she sees Luna, where she was waiting for them outside of the library. Luna seems to be chatting with a creature only she can see with her Spectrespecs.

“Yes, well, we have a party tonight, and we all know that you’ll be too hungover to attempt _ any _work tomorrow,” Hermione lectures. She falls into her role.

She is _ logic_. She has her anchor. She is _ logic_.

There is no room for anything else. Not her whims. Not her wants. Not the salat. Not even Allah, sometimes.

_ (She does not notice the girl standing by the bookshelf, tall and narrow-faced with an upturned nose. _

_ She does not notice the boy that joins her, silver eyes narrowed. _

_ Hermione Granger does not notice. _

_ Later, she will wonder what would’ve happened if she had. She will wonder if it would have changed a thing. _

_ Here is a secret: it will not have. Everything that happens, will and must. Minute by minute.) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is different. You know it. I know it.
> 
> This is Hermione Granger. Just a little taste before we hit her story in April. Yes, APRIL. Subscribe to the series now.
> 
> Anyway...here we go...minute by minute.
> 
> See you in a few hours for the wrap-up to euphoria! Two more chapters left! All today!


	88. SATURDAY, 7:56PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, Harry begins his goodbyes.
> 
> ~*~
> 
> "Please, please  
Don't leave me  
Be
> 
> It's not true  
Take me to the rooftop  
Told you not to worry  
What do you want from me?  
Don't ask questions  
Wait a minute  
Don't you know I'm no good for you?  
Baby, I don't feel so good  
And all the good girls go to Hell  
Bite my tongue, bide my time  
What is it about them?  
I'm the bad guy"
> 
> -goodbye, Billie Eilish

The sun is going down. Harry can hear the rest of the Gryffindor upper-years downstairs, lecturing the younger years about the rules for tonight’s party. He can hear Professor McGonagall’s sharp input too. It’s their first and only sanctioned affair this term, and Harry knows that McGonagall will be _ ruthless _if anyone breaks the rules. She expects them all to break the rules.

She’s right to.

Harry just smiles about it.

He laughs to himself and sighs when he looks around his dorm room. His roommates have all escaped and only fallen into being lectured by McGonagall. Harry really loves having his room to himself, especially a room as big as this one.

It makes him forget about the days when he didn’t have anything that couldn’t fit in a cupboard.

Except—he pauses.

He can think about it now. It’s not deep in his subconscious, where he keeps it hidden and can’t finish a single thought about it. He can think about the abuse. About the pain. The hurt.

The rage that simmers every time.

And when he breathes, he feels it go.

It goes away.

“Oh,” he whispers to himself as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, tucks it into his too tight jeans. He bends down to lace up his boots and thinks again.

_ I’m an addict_, he thinks. _ I’m a recovering addict_.

His lips curl into a smile as he ties his boots and he laughs. “_Oh. _ Oh, I’m an _ addict_,” he says and he feels a thrill rush up his spine. A burble of laughter slips between his lips and he spins around, looking into the mirror. It’s Silenced because he doesn’t want to hear it. He wants to hear _ himself_. “I was abused as a child. I was assaulted. I am angry. _ Was _angry. Still sometimes, angry.”

And nothing changes.

Nothing.

The world still turns.

All of the bad things happened to him. All of them. And still his world _ turns_.

He breathes.

He can’t stop smiling. Harry can’t stop smiling.

He stumbles towards his trunk and looks inside, pushing aside smelly Quidditch leathers, searching for a flannel to wear over his too tight shirt. He pauses when he sees a bottle.

It’s the Euphoria Elixir bottle.

Hermione and Ron missed it.

There’s still a little bit at the bottom, that strange purple-green-silver swirl. Harry grabs the bottle, feels the crystal cut into his palm. He stares into it, stares at the residue. He just..._ stares_.

And then, he pulls his wand. “_Evanesco_.”

The vial Vanishes.

Harry sets his wand back down on his bedspread and turns all of his attention back to searching for a clean flannel. He can’t seem to find one, so he moves on and grabs his locket from where it lays next to the wand. He goes back to the mirror and reaches around his neck, feels the big goose-egg sized locket bounce against his chest as he fumbles with the clasp.

“Fuck me,” he mutters.

“Gladly.”

Harry laughs as he looks into the mirror and stares at Tom’s reflection. Tom lounges across the bed. He’s watching Harry with those intense burgundy eyes that he _ always _looks at Harry with. Harry’s mouth twitches.

“Come help me with this,” he commands.

“Bossy brat,” Tom drawls. He gets up anyway, lazily slinking across the Gryffindor sixth-year dorm room. He joins Harry in the mirror and with his long, elegant piano fingers, he plucks the chain from Harry’s hands and fastens the clasp. “It’s like you’re not a wizard,” he says.

He punctuates it with a kiss to the back of Harry’s neck.

“Maybe I just wanted you to do it,” Harry says softly.

“Brat,” Tom calls him again. Then, he stops. “Darling, you are something else.”

“I’m your everything,” Harry retorts.

He notices very carefully that Tom doesn’t counter his words. He twists in Tom’s arms and leans up, pressing a soft kiss to Tom’s mouth.

Rage and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I love this very quiet chapter. Anyway, for clarity's sake, I'm not sure if it makes sense but all of Harry's parentheticals before were his subconscious. Now, he doesn't use them because he can acknowledge the terrible feelings. So, he feels like he's getting better.
> 
> AND HE IS! Getting Better!


	89. SATURDAY, 10:22PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which, we're doing it all for us.
> 
> ~*~  
"Too much in my system (Famine, famine)  
Money MIA (Pockets hella empty)  
Mama making ends meet (Making ends meet)  
Working like a slave (Mississippi, ayy, ayy)  
Daddy ain't at home, no (Father, Father)  
Gotta be a man (Michael Corleone)  
Do it for my homegrowns (Sisters, brothers)  
Do it for the fam (Yeah, so tell 'em, Labby)"
> 
> -all for us, Labrinth & Zendaya

This is not the kind of party Professor McGonagall imagined, Ginny thinks.

No. Professor McGonagall has never really _ witnessed _her students when they really get going. Ginny thinks that she probably thought that it would simply be a lesson in inter-house communication and friendship. Instead, this is the kind of party that rages.

They _ rage_.

Lisa Turpin has brought charmed cups that turn any alcohol in them into butterbeer the moment that a Professor gets a hold on them. She specially ordered them from a brewery, so Ginny imagines that they _ must _work. She thinks that only Professor Dumbledore or Flitwick would notice the intricate charmwork.

Ginny sips at her unicorn blood as she hangs over the bar.

“Can you really not come dance with me?” she sighs. She can’t help her whining, but she wants to dance with her _ fucking _boyfriend, and here he is, mixing drinks for anyone between the ages of fifteen and eighteen.

“It’s my shift. I made a deal with Turpin,” Blaise says.

That’s what she calls him in her head, no matter that she can’t quite find it in herself to call him Blaise to his face. No, to his face, he’s still—

“Alright, Zabini,” Ginny sighs. She sips at her unicorn blood and smiles around the straw. “I _ guess, _I won’t abandon you.”

Blaise snorts. “How was Quidditch practice?”

“Why? So you can report back to Malfoy?” Ginny teases.

Blaise grimaces. “No,” he says shortly. “Anyway, I think Draco...Draco is too busy to be a bully, I think.”

Ginny rolls her eyes, because she really can’t imagine the ferret being too busy to be the arsehole that he really is, truly and deeply.

“Doing what?” she spits. “It’s, like, his default.”

Ginny’s gaze softens, though, because she sees the worry in Blaise’s eyes. Blaise sighs, shaking his head, shaking his wrists out.

“It’s no big deal. It’s just, well, our friend—”

“Can I get a butterbeer?” someone asks.

“Wait! Make that three!” a Hufflepuff cries out.

Ginny takes a step back, making room at the bar as a crowd of students seem to descend upon Blaise. She shakes her head, smiling as he turns on the charm, making a Hufflepuff fourth year absolutely _ swoon_.

“Duty calls,” Blaise says with a salute.

Ginny nods and elbows her way through the students. She leans over and presses a soft kiss to his lips. She leans back and grins when she sees how dazed he is. She winks at him, roguishly.

“Find me when you’re done.”

Blaise grins. “_Always._”

* * *

_"Just for your love, yeah, I'll (Oh, oh, oh, oh)_  
_Give you the world (Oh, oh, oh, oh)_  
_Mona Lisa's smile (Oh, oh, oh, oh)_  
_Hey (Oh, oh, oh, oh)_  
_Hell, I'll do 25 to life (Oh, oh, oh, oh)_  
_If it makes me a king (Oh, oh, oh, oh)_  
_A star in your eyes (Oh, oh, oh, oh)_  
_Guilty or innocent_  
_My love is infinite, I'm giving it_  
_No need for prisoners_  
_Bitch, please, hands up, this is a stickup, 'cause I'm"_

* * *

They don’t use a Notice-Me-Not charm this time.

This time, when they dance, they are the center of attention, and while Harry usually cringes from that, he _ revels _in it this time. He has one arm looped around Tom’s neck and he gasps when Tom rolls his hips forward, pressing a thigh between Harry’s legs. Tom presses his face into the side of Harry’s neck as they dance to the strange bass of whatever Muggle music Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan have concocted to play through the wireless.

“You are...shameless,” Tom hisses.

“Think that’s _my _line,” Harry retorts as he drags himself even closer. He feels Tom’s hands tighten on his waist, yanking him forward and he looks up at him. Tom looks at him with those burning red eyes and he sighs. “You’re dangerous, Tom Riddle.”

Tom doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans forward and kisses Harry.

And Harry kisses back, losing himself in it. No one around them matters.

Nothing else matters.

And Hermione is almost jealous.

She really is.

She wants to be as careful, as careless, as free. Hermione turns her gaze away and sinks back into the loveseat. She folds her legs underneath her and adjusts her arm where she has it wrapped around Luna, whom she’s holding propped up. Hermione’s pretty sure that Luna is high, because she’d disappeared with Neville and a few others after Neville had mentioned that he had some _ plant life _he wanted to show them.

Now, she has red eyes behind her Spectrespecs and she sounds even less lucid than normal.

“How’s she doing?” Ron asks as he collapses into the seat on Hermione’s other side. “Budge over.”

Hermione snorts and adjusts herself, even though the loveseat is built for two. It requires her practically dragging Luna into her lap, and Luna giggles, mumbling to herself. She’s reading the Quibbler right-side up, so Hermione knows that she’s _ definitely _high.

“She’s high. Does Neville _ usually _smoke marijuana?” Hermione asks.

“Is that what that is? Some kind of magical plant, you think?” Ron asks, throwing one arm over the back of the loveseat.

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s a Muggle plant.”

“Well...Muggles are something, aren’t they?” Ron asks.

Hermione sighs, staring into the roaring fire.

Sometimes, Hermione thinks that they all forget that she was Muggle until she wasn’t. That she grew up as a Muggle, thinking that she was utterly and completely and forgettably normal. She wasn’t like Tom Riddle, who probably always knew that he was special. She wasn’t like Harry Potter, who always had that quality of extraordinary.

Once upon a time, she’d just been Hermione Granger, too Black, too Arab, too Muslim, with a _ very _English name.

“Hermione?” Ron asks, and then, he stops when something catches his eye. His entire face falls. Hermione follows his gaze and almost violently flinches back into the chair.

Michael Corner and Lavender are pressed into the corner of the room, snogging furiously up against the wall. His fingers are deep in her shiny curls, mussing them up, as he licks into her mouth. Hermione watches curiously because she wonders how that feels. She wonders what it feels like, fingers pressed to her jaw, fingers in her curls, hands on her waist. She wonders whether she’d like strong hands, like Michael Corners, or finer fingers.

_ (Hermione has never kissed someone before. She kisses in her dreams sometimes, kisses mouths that taste like cherry lip—) _

“I just…” Ron starts helplessly and then, he shakes his head, his ears burning as he turns to look at Hermione. There’s a determined glint in his eyes. “How are you, Mione?”

“What?” Hermione asks, dragging her eyes away from Lavender and Michael, settling to face Ron. He’s staring at her, too intently, enough that it makes Hermione shift uncomfortably. “I’m...I’m fine?”

“Good. That’s good.” Ron stops, awkwardly. His ears are still bright red in the low light. “You know...my mum asks about you a lot. You _ and _Harry, of course. But, you. She asks about you a lot.”

“Oh?” Hermione says, voice going high.

“She thinks you’re really, really great, Mione. Says that whoever you’re going to be with one day is a very lucky man,” Ron says.

There’s a weight to his words. Hermione isn’t skilled enough social etiquette to entirely parse out the meaning.

“I...er...tell her I said thanks?” Hermione suggests.

Ron beams somehow. “Okay. I’ll definitely tell her.”

Hermione winces and turns back as Luna mumbles, “Hermione...the fire is _ purple_.”

“Yes, alright, habibi,” Hermione says, patting Luna on the top of her head. Luna adjusts her head, laying it on Hermione’s breasts.

“Your chest is really soft, Mione. Like an Umgubular Slashkilter.”

Hermione snorts. “_Thanks, _Luna.”

* * *

_"Guess you figured my two times two always equates to one_  
_Dreamers are selfish_  
_When it all comes down to it_  
_I hope one of you come back to remind me of who I was_  
_When I go disappear_  
_Into that good night, good night, good night, good night, good night_  
  
_I'm taking it all for us, all_  
_Doing it all for love"_

* * *

They’re upstairs.

In Harry’s bed. The door is locked and warded, and still the sounds of the party filter through underneath. Harry doesn’t even mind.

They aren’t touching, exactly, but they share each breath.

“Do you know that when we exhale, we are breathing out a compound called carbon dioxide?” Tom asks, staring at him quite seriously, like this is the greatest mystery in all of the universe. His lips twitch into a smirk when Harry huffs out a laugh.

“No, I did not know that. What does it matter?” Harry asks softly.

“If one inhales a large enough concentration, one could die. Would you die on my carbon dioxide?” Tom asks. Harry’s eyes narrow as he tries to parse the meaning of Tom’s words. He reaches over, letting his hand fall on Tom’s sharp cheekbone.

Softly, he whispers, “_ No. _”

Tom _ grins. _

“Very well,” he says loftily, and that is the end of it. He lets one large hand fall to the dip of Harry’s waist, and tugs him closer. He pulls Harry’s thigh over him so that they’re perfectly slotted together. “I want to possess every inch of you. I want _ all _of you.”

“You can’t have it all,” Harry whispers. “I belong to me.”

Tom nods. “I know. That’s why I want you even more,” he murmurs, and Harry knows that this has always been part of it. Tom has always wanted to possess Harry in some fashion, because he couldn’t have him to begin with, and maybe that’s unhealthy, but Harry is so past caring.

There is so much that Harry has cared about and not cared about for too long.

“You could be anything you wanted,” Harry whispers, stroking his fingers over Tom’s cheek. “But, you want to be great.”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me, Harry?” Tom asks, just as quietly, but there’s a sharpness there.

“Is it because they told you that you couldn’t be?” Harry counters. He doesn’t push. He just stares at Tom while a mask falls over his face. Harry gets even closer, feels his warmth. “You know that you are great, right, Tom? You are _ great_. Men like you are always great.”

And sharply, Tom hisses, “There are no men like me.” [1]

Harry laughs, shaking his head.

“There are deeper, darker things between us, aren’t there? Things we can never tell anyone except each other.,” Harry whispers. He leans forward. “Let’s play a game: a secret for a secret.”

Tom loves his games. His eyes narrow. “Fine. You go first.”

Harry hums, snuggling closer, pressing his forehead against Tom’s collarbone.

“I think you are a bad idea. You are a _ very _ bad idea. And yet, I’m here. I’m in love with you, because I have always been in love with things that are bad for me,” Harry confesses, and it is the closest thing that he will ever say to what really is happening—Harry doesn’t need Tom’s love, because he thinks one day he might, because he is addictive, he loves to _ need_. He loves to be _ needed_. He wants to encourage an addiction in this boy too.

“Okay,” Tom says, softly. He doesn’t say anything against it. He thinks he’s a bad idea too. One day, Tom will think that Harry is a weakness, Harry knows. And when that day comes, Harry thinks that he’ll be too deep too. They’ll be too deep together. “I took care of Krum alone. And I made sure that he knew it was me. I wanted him to be aware of _ every _single second. Only Bellatrix helped me. I have never felt more alive. It was not my first time using an Unforgiveable.”

Harry doesn’t need to ask to know that Tom is well-versed in all three.

He is not joking when he calls his boy, _ killer_.

Harry smiles up at him, humorlessly and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to Tom’s jaw.

Softly, he whispers, “I wish I was there when you did it. I want to learn how.” It is one of the worst secrets he has. He knows what killed his parents. He knows every spell, has memorized them all. He has taught each and everyone to himself.

Except for the last three. The Unforgiveables.

“I’ll teach you,” Tom hisses.

Harry laughs quietly at his eagerness. He pushes Tom onto his back and straddles this boy and feels _ powerful_. “Promise?” Harry drawls.

He doesn’t think he will ever learn. He doesn’t think he’d be able to do it in the light of day. No, this is something he will only confess in the space in darkness when he can’t quite see Tom except for the red of his eyes.

“Another secret,” Harry prompts.

“Alright,” Tom Riddle agrees. “I care deeply for you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it. Harry knows that he says it like this because he can’t quite manage, _ I love you _ . But Harry knows that’s what he means. He _ knows. _

It’s no secret.

Harry will let him have this one.

“Okay,” Harry says. He leans down, his lips brushing against Tom’s. He shivers above him and wishes that he could find himself in this boy’s chest. “You want to know why I like kissing you?”

“Yes.” Tom preens underneath Harry, stares up at Harry like he's _glory_.

Harry Potter grins. “I've always tasted _ euphoria _on your tongue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Obviously, Game of Thrones, Season 1, Episode 10
> 
> A/N: And here is the end of _euphoria_.
> 
> It has been a very wild ride, hasn't it?
> 
> Writing this story has been so cathartic to me in ways that you don't understand. It's been so great and trying and exhausting and rewarding. I love this story, from the very bottom of my heart, and I'm so happy that I got to share it with you. As always, I want to give credit to Julie Andem, the creator and writer of SKAM, but I feel like so much of this I drew from myself and my own experiences.
> 
> I'm so glad I go to share it with you.
> 
> Now, onwards!
> 
> Coming Next: the miseducation of hermione granger (April 19)

**Author's Note:**

> This work is beta'd by the incomparable exarite of Unplanned fame. DO give that a read!
> 
> ~*~
> 
> Just want to make clear that a fair amount of the story is inspired by SKAM, of the incomparable Julie Andem!!
> 
> Certain story beats are definitely of her mind and I HIGHLY recommend that you go watch her incredible show!!!


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